


A Question of Identity

by VolceVoice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Amnesia, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Love, M/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-03 13:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VolceVoice/pseuds/VolceVoice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The observations of an amnesiac murder witness force John to rethink his assumptions about Sherlock, himself, and the definition of love. </p>
<p>Meanwhile, a murderer is still on the loose . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [身份疑云](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2452688) by [shanzhu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shanzhu/pseuds/shanzhu)



> This story is set several months after the Great Game and wings it from there.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own no part of the BBC or Sherlock, nor do I mean any disrespect to the writers, producers, or actors.

Few knew it, but John Watson hated being bored as much as his flatmate did. Almost.

There were times when a whole day without receiving unexplained instructions or a few consecutive nights of uninterrupted sleep wouldn't have come amiss—perhaps  _one single week_  in which Sherlock Holmes' various homemade remedies for cognitive ennui didn't put either of their lives in danger or threaten to condemn the flat as a biohazard.

But it had been far longer than a week between decent cases, and even John was beginning to wonder if the  _interesting_  half of the criminal element of London had taken an extended holiday. He couldn't even bring himself to complain, much, when Sherlock stocked the fridge to overflow with spare parts from the morgue and used John's gun for target practice in the living room at all hours.

He  _did_  complain when Sherlock began distilling unspeakable liquids on the kitchen table, but only because Mrs. Hudson cornered him on the way to work. "Find him something to do that won't bring the roof down on us," she said, "or I will take  _steps_. You would not believe what dripped out of my light fixture this morning or what it did to my lino."

John would. He left an urgent message for Lestrade and another the next day. Two days after that, he was thinking of contacting  _Mycroft_  to keep things from escalating out of control—or perhaps to tip it over the edge once and for all—when a text finally came.

Two texts, in fact—for once, John received a personal invitation:

 _**Body found at Tottingham Station. Please come with him. Need your expertise._ — _L**_

John would have come along anyway—Sherlock expected it—but the message made it impossible to refuse. He was well aware that his own abilities, while useful enough, didn't often translate into the sort of expertise needed by Scotland Yard—unless it was to keep one consulting detective running just this side of amok. And Lestrade had never bothered to text him about that before.

"A tube station murder," said Sherlock as a uniformed policeman let them into the half-refurbished building. "And the busiest one in London as well. Not exactly a locked room, is it?" But his haste to the stairs belied his contemptuous tone.

"It's been closed to the public for two months," said John as they descended, stretching his own legs to keep up.

"Hmmph."

Lestrade met them at the bottom.

"What do you have for me?" said Sherlock, in a drawl that few but John would know masked hopeful anticipation.

Lestrade shook his head. "You tell me," he said. "Down that way, to the left."

As they rounded the corner, John saw the expected dead body on the platform, a young woman from what he could see, and the usual complement of officers, detectives, and assorted charter members of the Sherlock Holmes Fan Club.

Anderson's nasal tones echoed. "That's all we need. The freak and his blogger."

Normally, Sherlock would take this as an invitation to drive the forensic technician well away from the crime scene before he "contaminated the area with his aura of profound stupidity." But for once, Sherlock seemed more interested in the living.

Specifically, the woman across the way who was shouting at Sally Donovan.

"I don't  _remember_ ," the woman said. "That's what amnesia  _means_." Her raised voice was irritated rather than scared. "I don't know who I am  _or_  where I'm from. I assume by my accent that I grew up in the northern two thirds of North America but I can't imagine that  _help_ s. And it shouldn't  _matter_. It's obvious she was strangled and even more obvious that I couldn't have done it." She thrust a hand towards Sally's face. "Look at my handspan. Look at the bruises on her neck. Do the  _geometry_."

Sherlock had drifted next to Sally and was observing the woman with an intent look on his face. John followed and did the same.

She wasn't beautiful in any conventional sense. A bit taller than John, a bit heavier than Sherlock, her figure hidden in nondescript skirt and blouse swathed in a shapeless, porridge-colored cardigan. Her features were strong in a square face bare of makeup and her hair, an ordinary light brown, was coming loose from the slide that had held it at the nape of her neck, the freed locks hanging limp over her shoulders. But her eyes—her eyes were an extraordinary pale gold, beneath heavy lids, and so intense that they seemed larger than they likely were.

She turned those eyes on him, giving him a piercing once over before doing the same to Sherlock. John had a strong sense of déjà vu, though he knew he'd never seen her before.

"You're a doctor," she said, returning to John. "Please tell the sergeant what happens when the back of someone's skull is smacked with a blunt object."

Sally gave Sherlock and John a quick, startled glance. "How did you know he was a doctor? Is your memory coming back?" From her tone, she didn't believe it had gone missing.

"It's obvious," snapped the woman. "Could you please take a look at the lump on the back of my head, doctor? All the medics did was give me an ice pack and a blanket, for shock. I'm not  _in_  shock, I'm  _angry._ "

John stared at her, then at Sherlock, whose own extraordinary eyes had gone as wide as hers.

Déjà vu, indeed.

"I'm sorry," she said, frowning, flicking a glance at Sherlock as he inhaled sharply. "Do you still use your rank now that you're back home?"

"Ah, no," said John, moving forward with a reassuring smile. "Doctor is fine."

She nodded and pulled the slide out of her hair, putting it in the pocket of her cardigan. "It's on the right, behind my ear."

"Miss," said Sally, clearly trying to gain control of the interview, "are you sure you don't know—"

"Of course, she's sure," said Sherlock, in his brusque baritone. "If nothing else, few murderers would be stupid enough to lie next to their murder victims for the length of time it takes for post-mortem bruising to form and then claim loss of memory. They'd give a detailed false report or run for it."

Sally folded her arms. "I still say it's suspicious—"

"It's not  _suspicious_ ," said the woman. "It's a  _murder_. You might try looking at the body instead of harassing me with questions I can't answer. Can't," she added. "Not  _won't_. Ouch."

"Sorry," said John, probing the large knot behind her ear. "You have a substantial contusion." He glanced at Sherlock. "A sharp blow from a blunt instrument, I'd say." He looked around at the construction materials. "No shortage of those, here."

"Would you say from the bruise that the blow was enough to knock out a woman my size?"

"Oh, yes." He was surprised she was up and about, though he'd had some recent experience with the effects of adrenaline and pure, stubborn irritation. "How is your vision?"

"Fine. Thank you, doctor."

John knew a dismissal when he heard one, and he moved away, but not too far. He'd had considerable experience with the inevitable aftermath of adrenaline and stubbornness as well.

Sally huffed. "Miss—"

"No. I'm done talking to you. Fine someone with different questions. Intelligent ones. And tell your boyfriend to stay away from me. I'm tired of his insults and innuendos."

Sally recoiled from Sherlock. "He's  _not_  my—"

"Not him," said the woman, jabbing a finger at Sherlock and then pointing in the direction of the body. "Him. The one who looks like a constipated rabbit."

Sherlock made a delighted sound as Sally muttered something that sounded ugly. The woman ignored her and looked at Sherlock. "Would you please help me figure out what the hell is going on? Except for the Detective Inspector and your partner, the rest of these people are useless."

"I believe I'd like an apology first." said Sherlock. His tone was one John hadn't heard before—the sort a parent or teacher might use to prompt a bright child who could figure out the answer themselves.

She blinked. "I'm sorry?" She blinked again and cocked her head to listen to herself. "Sorry. Sorry, sorry.  _Oh,_  not  _ah._ Canadian? No, I'm being rude and I can't be Québécois or I'd be raging in French by now. American, then. North Midwest—west of Chicago . . . maybe Wisconsin?" She smiled at Sherlock. "Thank you. That's a beginning."

He nodded. "Sherlock Holmes. John Watson."

She opened her mouth, then paused as if the words were stuck. Her smile turned rueful. "Damn. Almost. Would you do me a favor, Mr. Holmes?"

"If I can."

"Would you take a look at the body before the rabbit destroys the evidence?"

Sherlock's mouth quirked. "Would you care to accompany me, Miss Doe?"

Her smile widened. "Please call me Jane. Yes, I would."

John looked from one to the other, out of his depth and fascinated. "Jane Doe?"

She smiled at him, too, and he wondered why he hadn't thought her beautiful. "I'm an unknown American woman, Doctor Watson. It'll do, for now."

She and Sherlock turned as one and stalked toward the body. Anderson saw them coming, tried to stand on his authority, and retreated on what was left of it within ten seconds.

John couldn't help but chuckle. The man did look like a constipated rabbit.

"I didn't think there could be two like that in the world," said Lestrade, appearing at John's side. "Even one is a stretch."

"There should have been some kind of anti-matter explosion," agreed John, watching the singular pair explore the corpse with the air of children at play.

"Does she have amnesia, do you think?"

"Someone hit her hard enough on the back of the head to render her unconscious. I doubt she did it herself. It might be enough—waking up next to a dead woman would have done it for me."

"Lestrade!"

"Uh-oh." Lestrade and John hastened to the body.

"Of  _course_  I'm not showing the usual upset," yelled Jane, glaring up at Anderson and Sally from her position near the corpse's head. "I don't know who she is and I don't know that I ever did. You prove to me that I've just lost my best friend, or even a fond acquaintance, and I promise to have an Oscar-worthy emotional breakdown for your benefit. Deal? Until then, emotions will get in the way."

"They're  _both_  freaks," said Anderson. "Total psychopaths."

"Tell me, Detective Inspector," said Jane, peering at something on the dead woman's jacket. "Do they have slander laws in the UK?"

"Anderson, why don't you and Donovan go check the other exits," said Lestrade.

"But, sir, a  _suspect_  can't look over a  _victim_!"

"She's not a suspect, you utter imbecile," said Sherlock, without looking up from the corpse's throat. "She's a witness."

"She's a liar and even if she wasn't, she isn't marginally qualified to—"

"I sincerely doubt you're qualified to judge. For all you know—for all  _she_ knows—she could be the top ranked forensic scientist in the state of Wisconsin."

Jane lifted an eyebrow. "The State of New York would be more impressive."

"I didn't want to scare him."

Jane snorted. "Liar."

"Sir! This is ridiculous!"

"Go on," said Lestrade in a weary voice. "Get some air."

Anderson stomped off, though not, John noticed, out of sight.

"Go eat some lettuce, Anderson," called Sherlock.

"And take your honey bunny with you," added Jane.

They looked at each other and snickered.

"Sir!"

"You, too, Donovan. Please."

Jane glanced up at John, golden eyes dancing. "I'm sorry," she said. "I know giggling over a corpse isn't acceptable behavior."

"Don't mind him," said Sherlock. "He does it all the time."

"Untrue," said John, enjoying the byplay.

"I don't see how we're connected," she said, sitting back on her heels. "I don't  _think_  I'm a prostitute. Not even a high class one. But I don't think I'm some sort of social worker, either."

"I doubt you'd last long in either position. So to speak."

Lestrade choked. "Holmes, really—"

Jane looked at Lestrade. "I'm not offended—he's right. Either way, the clientele would bore me out of my mind." She sighed. "Okay. We know she and I are both from the States."

"We do?" asked Lestrade.

"Teeth," said Sherlock.

"And the tan." She frowned. "But that's not how I know. I just . . . know _._ " She rose to her feet, and swayed, putting a hand to her head. "Whew! Stood up too fast. She's American. But how do I know what I know that I know?" She staggered back. "Oh, God, don't let me fall on the—" She started to slump.

John sprang for her an instant before Lestrade and sat her down on the abutment of a pillar.

"Don't strain your shoulder," she mumbled.

"Let me worry about that," he said, pulling a penlight out of his pocket. "Open your eyes."

"I'll get the medics," said Lestrade, hovering. "They'll take her to—"

"No!" she said, her eyes opening wider than needed. "No hospitals. They aren't safe. People  _die_  there."

"You have a concussion," said John, checking her pupils. "Not severe, which is a wonder, but someone will have to wake you every two hours to make sure there isn't any internal bleeding."

"I suppose I could put her in protective custody,' said Lestrade. "There's a medical centre we use for—."

"You can't lock her up," said Sherlock, sounding indignant. "She hasn't done anything wrong."

Lestrade gave him a level look. "Are you sure about that?"

Sherlock hesitated. "She didn't kill this woman."

"All right," said Lestrade. "But she's still a witness, sort of, and she has nowhere else to go, until we figure out who she is. The staff at the centre will take care of—"

"No. She's coming home with us," said Sherlock. "I'll take responsibility."

"You?" scoffed Donovan, who had apparently surged forward with all the other officers when Jane had collapsed. "Take responsibility?"

"That'll save the Crown the expense of a trial," said Anderson.

Sherlock ignored them. "I have a doctor on hand at home. And comfortable surroundings might jog her memory."

"Comfortable. Right. I've seen your place, you know." Lestrade sighed. "John?"

"Hmmm?" He eased his thumb from Jane's left eyelid and turned off the light. "Yes, fine."

"Good," said Sherlock. "See to it, please, John. I've more to do, here."

John nodded. He'd expected as much. "Don't move," he told Jane. "I'm going to arrange transport."

Jane sighed. "Whatever you say, Doctor Watson."

He patted her shoulder. "It's John."

He straightened and went over to Lestrade. "Is it all right if I take her with me now?"

Lestrade nodded. "Are you sure about this?  _Two_  of them? Under one roof?"

He wasn't. Not at all. But he thought it might be good for Sherlock to interact with an intellectual equal who wasn't a close relative. Whether the flat—or London—would ever be the same was another question. "It won't be boring," he said.

"No," said Lestrade. "It won't be that."

Sherlock materialized next to them. "You should be less concerned with our domestic arrangements and more concerned that the murderer will find out he failed to kill Jane and try to finish the job. Even if he discovers she's lost her memory, he won't risk it coming back."

"He?" asked Lestrade.

"Obviously," said Jane, who appeared to have exceptional hearing. "The angle and span of the bruises on the neck, the powder on her left lapel and underwear. That reminds me, John—we'll have to pick up some personal things on our way to your place. If you'll give me a small loan?"

"Shouldn't be a problem," said John. "We'll stop on the way."

"Why not ring Sarah instead? She won't mind doing it for you," said Sherlock, all innocence. "She's very understanding."

John sighed. He'd finally hammered out a truce between his friend and his . . . other friend, but the verbal barbs continued on both sides. "Sherlock—"

"Really?" asked Jane, opening an eye. "I'd mind like hell, regardless of what I understood. Of course, she's in the medical profession and I'm not—or I don't think I am. " She grimaced. "Does anyone have some Tylenol, or whatever you call acetaminophen here?"

"Anderson!" barked Sherlock. "Make yourself useful for once and find some paracetamol."

"Not him—his girlfriend," said Jane. "There's a reason both of them are so cranky this week, though I doubt they're ever a cheerful couple. His wife should be pleased about that."

"I'll, ah, just go find a taxi, then," said John.

"I'll help you," said Lestrade.


	2. Chapter 2

To John's relief, Mrs. Hudson agreed to do Jane's shopping, in exchange for being allowed to explain her purchases and fuss over the "poor girl" for almost an hour afterward, until Jane pled reluctant exhaustion.

This was one difference between Jane and Sherlock, John noted: Sherlock would have escaped after five minutes and not bothered with reason or apology.

"Thank you so much again, Mrs. Hudson," said Jane, sitting on the couch surrounded by her new possessions. "I know it was an imposition, no matter how close you are to your tenants."

The older woman beamed. "Well, it's a very special circumstance, dear. And who knows what these boys would have bought. Not an ounce of fashion sense between them, even if they are—"

"Any trouble with Sherlock's bank card, Mrs. Hudson?" interrupted John, clearing away the shopping bags.

"No," she said, puzzled. "Should there have been? Anyway, I'm sure you'll be comfortable here, Jane—a bit crowded maybe, and Sherlock does have his ways." She looked doubtful for a moment before brightening. "But at least you'll have no worries about unwanted attention from these two. They'd be perfect gentlemen, even if they weren't, you know, that way."

John sighed as Jane blinked. "That way? Oh!" She shot an amused look at John. "I'm sure I'll be perfectly safe."

"She really should rest now, Mrs. Hudson," said John, ushering her to the door.

"Of course. If you need anything, Jane . . . " She left with a wave.

John shut the door. "Just so you know—"

"Don't worry about it," said Jane. "It's no one's business but yours and Mr. Holmes' and it doesn't matter to me one way or another."

"No," said John, slightly deflated and not knowing why. "Of course not. Did you want to lie down for a while? Or can I get you something to eat?"

"If it's all right, I'd like to shower and change. I feel grungy. Besides," she said, "I should check for distinguishing marks. With luck, I'm the kind of person who tattooed her own name somewhere, in case of emergencies. Do people do that?"

"It's other people's first names, usually" said John, with the authority of an Army doctor who had seen it all, or most of it, inked on his patients. "Or a heart with 'Mum' written in it is always popular."

"I won't have that one," she said, picking up her new sponge bag and putting various things in it. "I never knew my mother." She looked up, eyes blazing, and pointed a cellophane-wrapped toothbrush at him. "I never knew my mother."

John stood still and waited, knowing better than to fire questions at her. She had to do the work herself at this point.

"Gah," she said. "That's it."

"It'll come," he said, as if it didn't matter one way or another. "Don't force it."

"Lesson learned," she said, rubbing her forehead. "It's like slamming my mind against a brick wall." She picked up various items of clothing and stood. "Lead me to the bathroom, please."

John directed her, found her a clean towel, told her not to lock the door in case she felt faint again, and went to change the sheets on Sherlock's bed. Sherlock's bedroom was closer to the bathroom, he napped on the couch more often than not, and having a houseguest had been his idea in the first place.

The room was far neater than John had feared, not that he'd seen inside more than once or twice. Barring the bed and the floor, papers covered most of the horizontal surfaces, including a substantial pile of research books near the desk, but there didn't appear to be any active experiments festering anywhere, and no odd smells.

He stripped and made the bed with fresh sheets, then bundled the old ones for the laundry. He didn't know if they'd actually been used—Sherlock considered his sleep cycle to be optional, until he dropped—but it was best to be safe.

He picked up the pillow, which had been used at least once—the case held a trace of the distinctive scent he associated with his flatmate, a combination of various chemicals and the expensive shampoo Sherlock preferred, which to John seemed a ridiculously extravagance for a man who didn't date and only bothered with haircuts when his vision was impeded.

John sniffed at the pillow again, wondering whether the faint tang of burnt match was in fact from matches, or potassium, or perhaps even Sherlock himself, then realized what he was doing, and stopped. One picked up some very strange habits, living with a consulting detective.

He fetched the spare pillow from his own closet, put Sherlock's on the couch—that should be clue enough for him—and moved Jane's things onto Sherlock's bed.

He knocked on the door of the bathroom on his way to the kitchen. "You okay?"

"Fine, thanks. No tattoos so far."

"Oh. Sorry."

"It's not your fault," she said. "I'll be out in a minute."

John wandered into the kitchen to put the kettle on. The entire room still showed signs of Sherlock's recent bout of boredom, and he wondered if he should clean it up, supposing he could figure out how to do so safely. He decided against it. Jane didn't strike him as the type to be put off by a mad scientist's laboratory—she might have one of her own, somewhere. A thought struck him, and he checked the fridge. All right, he should probably warn her about that. . .

Someone knocked on the door. He opened it, expecting to see Mrs. Hudson.

It was Sarah.

"Hello," she said. "I hope you don't mind. Mrs. Hudson let me in."

"No, of course not." He stood aside. "Thanks for covering for me today."

"You'll make it up to me later," she said, with a smile that made him hope she meant more than taking extra clinic hours. "Is he here?"

"No," he said, " _He_  is out on a case. Actually, I'd better tell you—"

"That you're going to be following him around again tomorrow, I suppose." She shook her head. "Honestly, the man doesn't seem to have any respect for your work at all."

"Sarah," he said.

She took a breath. "I know, I know. Look, I came over here to ask you to dinner. My yoga class was cancelled."

John was tempted—he was the one who did the asking with Sarah—but he couldn't leave Jane alone and he had no idea when Sherlock might come home.

"I'd love to, but I can't tonight. That's what I wanted to tell you. Sherlock brought home—"

"Whatever strange thing he brought home can wait," she said, moving closer. "I'm in need of pleasant company and a drink, and I'd very much like you to provide both, please."

"Nothing else?" he asked, closing the gap between them, and sliding his hands around her waist.

"Well . . ."

"Sorry, John, I forgot to take underwear—oh. I'm sorry," said Jane, hand securing her towel, which, while covering the essentials, did little else to hide a figure that was in no way as dumpy as it had appeared before, not that this mattered to John one way or another. Especially not in front of Sarah.

"Hello," said Jane, offering her free hand and a smile. "You must be John's Sarah."

"That remains to be seen," said Sarah, taking the hand at arm's length. "Who are you?"

"I have no idea," said Jane. "I'm a witness to a murder, apparently, though I can't remember it, or anything much, and the man who hit me hard enough to take my memory took my ID as well. Still, I'm better off than the body, right? Mr. Holmes has adopted me until I can get my memory back, but so far, it's all fallen to John, whom I've just completely embarrassed by appearing at exactly the wrong moment in a towel in front of the one woman he wants most to impress, whom I hope didn't get the _wrong_  impression. Did you?"

John held his breath and Sarah took back her hand in a bemused way. "I'm not sure."

"Trust me, I'm grateful to John for putting up with my confusion and concussion, but gratitude only goes so far. Tell, me, doctor, do you know anything about memory loss?"

"Not much, I'm afraid." Sarah glanced at John, who smiled in what he hoped was an unconcerned, guilt-free way.

"How about distinguishing marks? I tried, but I can't see my back."

"I'm sorry?"

"I can't see my back," said Jane. "To check for any marks that might help Scotland Yard identify me. Could you take a look? No offense meant, John, but I'd feel much more comfortable with a female doctor."

"None taken," he said.

"Good," said Jane. "Would you mind?"

Sarah smiled. "Not at all."

"Thank you so much. And at the risk of embarrassing everyone again, where are the rest of my clothes?"

"The bedroom, ah, I mean,  _Sherlock's_  bedroom," said John, wincing. "Opposite the bath."

"Ah, thank you. So, doctor," said Jane, disappearing down the hall, with Sarah, "Are you enjoying your yoga class? Is it helping your knee?"

"Yes it is. But how did you . . .?"

John shook his head and went to rescue the kettle.

Twenty minutes and two cups of tea later, Sarah and Jane walked into the room laughing. Jane was wearing slacks and a fitted pink top that did good things for her skin, and had her  oatmeal-colored cardigan over an arm.

"Any tattoos?" asked John, setting aside his laptop. "Or crown-shaped birthmarks?"

"Not even a mole," said Jane. "I'm very disappointed. Thank you again, Sarah," she added.

"I was glad to do it." She went over to John and dropped a kiss on his cheek. "Rain check for dinner? Great," she said, when he nodded. "I'll see you tomorrow. If you need anything, Jane, please call me."

"I will. Thanks." Jane shut the door, walked past John and dropped into Sherlock's chair. "Whew! That is one jealous woman. Could I get this washed, please?"

"I'll see to it," he said, taking the cardigan. "I think you handled it brilliantly."

"Thanks," she said. "But then, I'm not the one turning her green."

"What do you mean?"

Jane looked at him, her odd eyes focused on him. "Hmmm," she said.

"What?"

"Well, she's far more polite about it than those two idiots this morning,—she's a genuinely nice woman, I think—"

"She is," he said.

"But she doesn't like Mr. Holmes. At all. She thinks he's too smart for his own good, unstable and a poor influence. Plus, he's the competition so—"

" _Competition?_   For  _what_  exactly?"

She raised an eyebrow. "For your time," she said. "It's difficult to keep a man interested if he's not there to  _be_  interested. And she can't provide the kind of adrenaline rush Mr. Holmes can. The only thing she  _thinks_  she might have over him is . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"Jane? Another memory?"

"No," she said. "Discretion. Do you think I could have another paracetamol? Or maybe several?"

He took in a breath, then let it out. "Of course," he said, and went to find them.

When he got back, with two pills and a demand that she finish her last sentence, she was curled up in the chair, asleep.

He put a cushion under her head. The scent of her still-damp hair teased his nose, familiar, but out of place—she'd borrowed Sherlock's shampoo. He didn't know why this bothered him, but it did.

He checked the time, then sat down to update his blog and start a private entry on one Jane Doe.

He was oddly pleased to note that she snored.

 


	3. Chapter 3

John fully admitted that his powers of observation weren't up to a consulting detective's standards, but he had learned to accurately read that detective's mood from the sounds he made entering a room.

For the first time in weeks, the footsteps didn't drag or stomp and the door was shut completely behind him, but without excess force.

Sherlock Holmes was no longer bored.

He slung off his jacket and threw it on the couch, narrowly missing John. "Where is—?"

John put down his book and made a shushing gesture, pointing to their sleeping houseguest across the room. "Learn anything useful?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock shrugged, but not unhappily. "Time will tell. You?"

"Jane never knew her mother and she has no distinguishing marks."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "You have been busy." He regarded Jane. "So," he murmured, "how is our locked room mystery?"

"Been napping all afternoon." John checked his watch. "It's about time to wake her again." He went over and gently shook Jane's shoulder.

She spoke without moving. "You're still John Watson, I'm still Jane Doe and I'm still fine where I am, unless Mr. Holmes would like his chair back."

John smiled. "Very good, but I still need you to open your eyes."

"This is going to get really old, really quickly," she said, but let him check her pupils.

"Do you remember today's date?"

She recited it and looked past him to Sherlock. "And before you ask, John told me two hours ago and I didn't feel any surprise or shock at the month or the year. Do you want your chair back?"

"I'll take John's," he said, and did so.

"Thanks very much," John said, without heat. He'd been sitting too long anyway. "Cuppa?"

"If there's milk," said Sherlock.

Jane, caught in mid-yawn, shook her head and uncurled, stretching.

Sherlock studied her. "You look different."

"Yes," she said. "I'm clean and wearing different clothes."

"Who selected them?"

"Mrs. Hudson. You didn't set a limit, so she bought enough for a week. I won't take the tags off anything until I wear it."

Sherlock waved that away. "Why did you choose that combination?"

She looked down at herself. "Top of the pile. Also, the shirt has long sleeves; it's chilly in here."

"Did she buy you any makeup? You aren't wearing any."

"No, it didn't seem worth the effort."

"Then you don't care much about your appearance."

John rolled his eyes as he went into the kitchen, ears tuned to their conversation.  _He_  knew Sherlock meant no insult, but he rarely bothered to think about how things might sound to others, especially to the opposite sex. He'd upset poor Molly more than once.

But Jane seemed to understand. "I don't think it's a high priority for me," she said, after a pause. "Or maybe I just don't care about impressing you or John. Either way, I don't automatically depend on my looks to get by, so it's unlikely my job, if I have one, depends on it either."

"Precisely."

"There go my dreams of a modeling career. Of course, it's also possible I didn't want to annoy Sarah any further by dressing up."

"Oh, was  _she_  here?" Then, in a slightly different tone, "You said 'further.' How did you annoy her initially?"

John tensed, milk in hand, but Jane only said, "She invited John to dinner, but he had to babysit my concussion."

"I shouldn't think that would annoy a doctor."

"Her  _profession_  didn't want to spend time with John," Jane said in an amused voice. " _She_  did."

"And you cared if she was upset? You'll most likely never see her again."

" _John_  cared about seeing her again. And irritating someone who might prove useful is counterproductive."

John returned the sugar bowl to its place and wondered whether she meant Sarah or himself. Possibly both, not that it mattered. Sherlock had a long list of useful persons, too, but John knew he'd rather be on his far shorter list of friends, which by definition were those who didn't mind that he could be irritating and irritable, often at the same time.

". . . besides," Jane was saying, "she did take the time to check my back for tattoos and crown-shaped birthmarks."

"Ah," said Sherlock. "I wondered how John had acquired his information. Have you eaten?"

"Not for the last six hours," she said. "Am I allowed to eat?" she asked, as John came back into the room.

"Are you nauseated?" he asked, handing a tea mug to Sherlock. "How's your head?"

"A little, but it could be hunger. No headache in front," she said, indicating her forehead and temples. "The back of it only hurts when I forget and lean on the bruise."

"Then yes, you can eat, but something light.  _Not_ Indian takeaway," he told Sherlock. "Or anything else spicy or rich."

"I thought we might take her to Angelo's," said Sherlock. "The menu is varied enough."

"How would you know?" asked John.

"I do eat, John."

"Oh? This week?" He exchanged a grin for an impatient glare. "Angelo's it is."

"Excellent. Oh, and don't forget to take your Browning. There's a murderer running around loose somewhere."

 

**oooOOOooo**

**  
**

Angelo, though as cheerful as usual, didn't seem to wholly approve of Jane's presence, especially when she chose to sit opposite John. He set the inevitable candle between the two men, as if to prove where his loyalties lay.

Sherlock didn't offer any explanations and John wasn't sure where to start, but Jane won the man over with a wide-eyed craving for something called  _pasta alla_   _checca_ , which she knew was off-menu but hoped would meet with Dr. Watson's approval. Angelo nodded happily and retreated to his kitchen to make it himself.

"Do you always do that?" asked Sherlock.

"Do what?" she asked, her eyes widening even further before she grinned and relaxed. "How would I know? It does seem like an automatic response, though, doesn't it?"

"Wasted effort," he said.

"I don't know," she said, looking around. "I might want to eat here, again."

"She used it on Sarah," said John. "And probably me."

"Not you," she said, picking up her water glass. "Or you, Mr. Holmes. That  _would_  be wasted effort."

Sherlock's lips twitched. "No so automatic, then." He tapped his chin. "You didn't bother for Anderson or Donovan, either. Rabbit," he clarified, as she blinked at him.

"I was frightened and my head hurt," she said, without apology. "Plus, being nice to men like that is just asking for a pass—and insults when you turn them down. And women like the sergeant bug me to death—if she chucked the bad boyfriends and the resentments and stopped  _settling_  for what she's expecting to get, she'd outrank Inspector Lestrade in five years, glass ceiling or not. But she won't, because she refuses to  _see_  it. Sorry," she said, frowning at her glass. "I don't know where that came from."

"Are you a therapist?" asked Sherlock.

She snorted. "If I am, I shouldn't be. Or maybe I'm burned out."

Their food arrived.

Sherlock only picked at his meal, too busy observing Jane to bother.

"Why did you order Bolognese if you won't eat it?" asked John, not for the first time and not expecting an answer.

"Because you ordered the antipasto this time," said Sherlock. "You don't eat like an American," he told Jane. "Did you notice how you're using your fork?"

She finished her mouthful and looked at the utensil in question. "No, I didn't." She set it down. "I'm trying not to think about how I do things until after I do them. Centipede's dilemma."

"Ah," said Sherlock.

John swallowed. "Centipede's . . .?"

" _Dilemma_ , John," said Sherlock, as if it should be obvious.

"The centipede can control fifty pairs of feet with no effort," said Jane. "Until the moment he stops to think about how he does it, gets tangled up, and never takes another step."

"If she thinks about how or why she's doing a conditioned behavior, such as handling a fork, her actions won't be natural and any data gathered through observation will be compromised," said Sherlock.

"That makes sense." John looked at Sherlock. "Why would my ordering the antipasto make you order the Bolognese?"

"And vice versa," added Jane.

Sherlock sighed. "Because while you like both, you aren't likely to enjoy two large platefuls of the same thing." He lifted his full plate and set it down on John's empty one. "Why would I order something you didn't like? That  _would_ be a waste."

John looked down at the pasta in surprise. It was true—when had he started finishing Sherlock's meals? And why didn't he weigh twice what he did?

"If I could change the subject for a moment," said Jane. "About the sleeping arrangements, tonight. I'll be fine on the couch. You don't have to give up your bedroom."

"John won't mind," said Sherlock.

You're right about that," said John. "I gave her yours."

"You what?"

"I don't want to put anyone out," said Jane.

"It's fine," said Sherlock. "I'll take John's."

"No you won't."

"Why not?"

"I'll be using it."

"But if your reason for giving away my room is the ease of checking on her during the night, then wouldn't it be best for  _you_  to take the couch?"

"Sherlock," said John. "You don't sleep in your room."

"I do. On occasion."

"Why doesn't Mr. Holmes check on me?" said Jane.

Sherlock stared at her.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," said John, folding his arms and smiling. "Why don't you?"

"Consider me an experiment," she said cheerfully. "Think of all the questions you could ask me while I'm reeling from being yanked out of REM. If you play your cards right, you could piece together my whole life story by morning. Besides, John is taking me to Scotland Yard and the embassy tomorrow morning and working at the clinic in the afternoon. He needs the sleep."

"Quite right," said John.

Sherlock spared him a glance. "You haven't eaten the Bolognese."

"No. No I haven't."

"Why not? You always do."

John shrugged. "Centipede's dilemma."

Jane chuckled.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Tell me," he said. "Is there a reason you're so concerned with John's well-being?"

"Oh, yes. Several."

"Enlighten us."

"I like him. He's been kind to me, simply because he is kind. He's a good man, too, with a soldier's bearing, a healer's judgment, and a strong moral compass, and there aren't. . ." she hesitated, then shook her head. "I don't think there are too many like him around."

The table was silent for a moment.

"Thank you," said John. "That's ah, thank you."

She nodded. "And I'm also curious, of course," she added.

"Curious?" said Sherlock. "About what?"

"About why you asked that particular question in the first place." She turned to Angelo, who was hovering. "Thank you so much for making the  _checca_ sauce for me! I know it was an imposition, but I don't remember ever tasting better."

"You order it any time you like," said the big man, beaming. "I make it for you myself. And any friend of Sherlock Holmes eats free!"

"Then I'll definitely be eating here again," she said. "Unless Mr. Holmes objects."

John braced himself for a Sherlockian burst of temper.

But to his surprise, Sherlock smiled and stood. "May I walk you home, Ms. Doe?" he said, offering an arm.

She rose and took it. "I would be delighted."

John shook his head as the unlikely couple strolled to the door.

"No appetite, eh?" said Angelo, looking at the Bolognese. "I find you a takeaway box."

John managed to leave without the leftover pasta or offending Angelo, but he could have done without the sympathetic clap on the shoulder.

The other two were a block away, and John was content to trail them and think. Jane was a puzzle, and would be one without the added amnesia. She appeared to be fully as brilliant as Sherlock, but used her talents in a much different way. Social engineering, they called it.

Sherlock had once called himself a high-functioning sociopath. John wasn't sure that was entirely true, but there was a certain calculated edge behind Jane's pleasantness that seemed to fit the bill. It was anyone's guess how much of it was sincere and how much manipulation—and John couldn't begin to figure out what any of it might have to do with her predicament.

He watched Sherlock point out something at the top of a building across the street when the sedan next to John revved its engine twice and peeled away from the curb.

His instincts figured it out an instant before his brain did. "Sherlock!" he shouted, running at full speed down the pavement, Browning out and ready. "Car!"

The sedan sped down the street and jumped the curb, coming straight for Jane and Sherlock, who disappeared.

The sedan turned just before it hit the flower shop, scraping the rear panel on the brick, and sped away, causing honks and shouts from the slower evening traffic.

John caught up and swung himself into the narrow alley between the buildings. "Are you all right?" he said.

"Fine," said Sherlock, rolling off Jane. "Ms. Doe?"

"I'm . . . all right," she said.

"Did you hit your head?" asked John, tucking his gun away.

"No . . . got the wind . . knocked out . . . of me. And I'm . . . dirty again. Thank you for saving . . . my life, Mr. Holmes. And you, too, John."

Sherlock rose in one graceful move and held out a hand. "Under the circumstances, you might as well call me Sherlock."

She took it and scrambled to her feet. "All right. Please call me Jane."

"The car scraped against the building," said John. "I managed to get a partial number off the back plate."

"Good," said Sherlock. "Though unless he's monumentally stupid, the car wasn't his."

"Are we waiting for the police this time?" asked John.

"I don't see any need," said Sherlock. "Feel free to mention it to Lestrade tomorrow morning, if you like. Shall we, Jane?"

Jane nodded and took Sherlock's arm again.

"This is why you don't have to worry about all that extra pasta," said Sherlock, clapping John on his good shoulder as they passed. "You always seem to find ways to burn it off."


	4. Chapter 4

Despite the adrenaline rush the night before, John slept well.

After thirty minutes of listening to Sherlock interrogate Jane, he had handed Sherlock the penlight and a short list of the warning signs of cranial hemorrhage, telling him to wake up Jane every two hours with whatever questions he liked. He'd told Jane that he trusted her to tell Sherlock if her headache or dizziness returned, or if she felt nauseated. 

Both of them were instructed to let him be, please, unless it was a true medical emergency or his life was in danger.

And they had. He'd read for an hour or so—the new Sir Arthur Conan Doyle biography Harry had given him for Christmas—before falling asleep and staying there until his alarm clock woke him. For once, he didn't feel like smashing it against the wall or resetting it for fifteen more minutes.

So this was what setting boundaries felt like . . .

The bathroom was empty, so he took full advantage of his early rising and had a long hot shower and a careful shave. It occurred to him as he brushed his teeth that he should be worried about what two geniuses might have done to the rest of the flat in nine hours, but it was far too late for second thoughts.

The living room, he was glad to see, looked like it always did, except Sherlock Holmes was neither sprawled in his chair nor cocooned in blankets on the couch. John thought about checking on Jane, but if they were both there, Sherlock would no doubt resent the implication that he couldn't follow simple directions and if they'd gone off somewhere, there was nothing to do but wait. So instead, he went in search of breakfast.

Whatever else they'd done during the night, they'd spent some time clearing away the distillery from the kitchen table. Jane, fully dressed, sat at one end with a mug of what looked like instant coffee in front of her and a half-eaten piece of toast on a plate near her elbow. Her expression did not indicate that this was her favorite time of day.

"Good morning," he said, deciding not to mention the caffeine. One cup wouldn't do her much harm at this point, anyway. "How do you feel?"

"Mmmph." She swirled the contents of the mug with her spoon. "You tell me."

He peered at her eyes, checked her contusion, which had shrunk a bit, asked her a few questions to which he received terse but satisfactory answers, and pronounced her out of danger. "Can I get you anything more to eat?"

"No. Thank you. You should rent your fridge out as a weight loss program."

He winced. "Sorry, I meant to leave a note."

"Shouldn't that have been your roommate's responsibility?"

"He doesn't believe in warnings, I'm afraid. I'm surprised you're still sitting here—or anywhere else in the flat. I don't know what Sarah would do if she ever had a look." It was one of his recurring worries, though she didn't visit as a rule. Yesterday had been a rare exception, and he doubted it would be repeated soon.

"Former people, or pieces of them, don't frighten me," said Jane. "At least not when they're in context. But that's not a food-safe arrangement."

"The top two drawers are reserved for actual food," he said, checking the kettle. "Apart from the milk, which is Sherlock's look out." He found the bread and looked around for the knife. "What sort of context should former people have?"

"Morgues, funerals, teaching hospitals, horror movies." She took a sip of coffee and grimaced. "Ugh. Crime scenes. And now detectives' kitchens, I guess." She set set down her mug. "To be honest, it was a shock, but once my heart started beating again, I reasoned that you wouldn't live with a Jeffrey Dahmer or a Sweeney Todd. Has that been a problem?"

He grinned as he sawed a few thick slices from the loaf. "What, not sharing a flat with Sweeney Todd? I have no complaints."

She made an impatient sound. "With Sarah. She doesn't seem to type to accept most of this." She gestured to the surfaces still covered in tubing.

"She knows a lot already—she was caught in the middle of a case on our first date." He thought about it as he kept an eye on the toaster oven—Sherlock had done something to it months ago and it didn't shut itself off any more. "But, you're right. She wouldn't understand. Who could?"

"You seem to."

He chuckled. "I don't pretend to understand all the things he does, no, but I trust that there's a point to it all. And if I ask, he'll tell me if he can. Most of the time."

"His work is that important?"

"Well, yeah. He's helped a lot of people, spared the police a lot of overtime, and saved lives—mine included. And it's certainly the most important thing in his life."

"Is it?" She changed the subject. "When are we due at the police station?"

"They said any time this morning. If we leave in an hour, we'll have plenty of time."

She nodded. "Should I be worried if my prints aren't on file or if they are?" Her eyes lit up. "What if I'm a criminal?"

"The idea doesn't seem to bother you," said Sherlock, from the doorway. He was dressed in his usual nightwear of tee-shirt, pyjama bottoms and silk bathrobe, with his curls going every which way and his silvery eyes heavy with sleep.

"I'm not,' she said. "Interesting. Should I be worried about that?"

Sherlock dropped into his habitual chair and scratched at his chest. "Only common criminals allow themselves to be fingerprinted."

She raised her eyebrows. "I see. Now I am worried."

"Where were you hiding?" asked John. "I thought I'd find you snoring away in the living room."

"In bed," said Sherlock, through a yawn. "Obviously. Is there any more coffee? I used up the milk. Oh, _instant_ , never mind."

"Obviously?" repeated John. "In bed?"

"Yes. It seemed logical to stay close by our houseguest instead of plodding back and forth all night. And you know how cold it gets. There was plenty of room," he added. "Jane didn't mind."

"Not at all," she said. "He does snore though."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "So do you."

"Do I? I'd forgotten. John, your toast. John!"

"What?" John spun around just in time to see his breakfast go up in smoke.

** oooooOOOOOooooo **

As they walked past the famous revolving sign and into New Scotland Yard, John was still upset. And even more upset about being upset.

He'd told Sherlock that he was fine with "whatever," during that painfully awkward conversation soon after they'd met. And he'd meant it—any homophobic tendencies he might have had didn't survive his sister's not entirely unexpected teenaged announcement. Even in the Army, anyone displaying that particular kind of ignorance or using careless insults within earshot of Captain Watson soon learned that he wasn't as mild mannered or easygoing as he might appear.

They stopped to sign in. There was a short delay while Jane's lack of identification was dealt with, leaving John more time to brood.

No, he honestly didn't care if Sherlock preferred men, women, both, or nothing at all. But apparently he did want him to be _consistent_ about it—and he didn't have any idea why.

"Are you all right, John?" asked Jane as they waited for the elevator car to empty. "You look confused."

He waited until they entered and pressed the button for the correct floor. "I _am_ confused. Sherlock is . . . he told me that women weren't his, ah, area . . . and then you and he . . ."

"Slept together," she said, helpfully. "As in _sleeping,_ two hours at a stretch, with bright lights and strange questions in between. Nothing else happened." Her expression was patient. "He made it very clear that nothing would and I made it very clear that he was right."

He exhaled, embarrassed at himself. "It's really none of my business."

"If you say so."

They rode in silence for three seconds.

"But why would he want to—to _sleep_ with a complete stranger? No offense," he added, realizing he'd spoken aloud. "But it doesn't seem like him at all."

"None taken." She shrugged. "Maybe a complete stranger is the safest person to ask when you need nonjudgmental human contact. Plus it was obviously a dig at you for not allowing him to have things all his own way. He's not used to that, is he?"

"Not really, no." He thought about this. Nonjudgmental human contact? "But I didn't think Sherlock liked to be touched." He'd barely tolerated John putting a plaster on his elbow last night.

"I think he's just very cautious. He's not a true sociopath, John, or he wouldn't have chosen the work that he has. He's more like Mark Twain's cat."

"Sorry?"

She closed her eyes. " _Weshould be careful to get out of an experience all the wisdom that is in it — not like the cat that sits on a hot stove lid. She will never sit down on a hot lid again — and that is well; but also she will never sit down on a cold one anymore_." She looked at him. "He's excellent at extracting knowledge from everything he experiences, but I'll bet you anything that some of those experiences left severe burn marks. Especially when it comes to intimacy—not sex," she said impatiently, as he made a sound in shocked protest. "Sex is easy—it's all mechanics and nerve endings. It's the _closeness_ that's risky, especially with people who are too important to him to lose." She smiled. "Thus endeth the lesson."

"Maybe you really are a therapist," he said, when he could. He didn't know what else to say, or to think, but he had the sinking feeling he'd let Sherlock down, somehow.

She shrugged. "Could be. But maybe I'm just another cat." The door opened. She paused before stepping out into the bustling office. "It was comforting to have someone there in the dark, stranger or not. And he's good at cuddling, your Sherlock, once he relaxes." She dropped him a wink and walked away, leaving him staring after her until the door started to close.

** oooooOOOOOooooo **

**  
**

Jane met with Lestrade, exchanged pleasantries, and was escorted away to be fingerprinted, photographed, interviewed, described, and searched for in every database in the UK, including customs records.

"How was it?" asked Lestrade, sitting back down behind his desk. "Flat still standing?"

"And marginally cleaner," said John, taking the chair opposite.

"Know anything more about your Jane Doe?"

John wondered where to start and decided he didn't have to. "Sherlock might. He was the one who stayed with her—stayed _up_ with her—last night."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows but didn't comment. "I just sent him an e-mail about the victim. Janet Cross, she was. Thirty-two, married, housewife—if that's what you call a woman with a housekeeper and a gardener. No children, thank God. Husband has money, some kind of troubleshooter for a computer company."

"So she wasn't a prostitute?"

"Oh, she was. Quite in demand, too, it seems." Lestrade leaned back and fiddled with a pencil. "The husband travels a lot. And when the cat's away, the mouse tricks herself up as a "sophisticated escort" to pick up some extra pocket money and some forbidden thrills."

"Does he know about her? The husband?"

Lestrade sighed. "He does, though we're not sure when he found out.  But he's got an alibi—he was in Switzerland at the time. Still, now that she's not just another dead doxy, we'll be allowed to dig a little more."

"One of her clients?"

"Probably. But we still don't know where your houseguest comes into it."

"About that . . . " John told him about the car incident, leaving out the Browning but little else.

The other man wrote it all down. "You didn't report it?" He shook his head. "No, of course you didn't."

"I have part of the plate number," said John.

The other man jotted it in his notes. "Paint on the building, you said?"

"That's right. They could have been aiming for Sherlock instead of Jane, though. He has enemies of his own."

"You don't say." Lestrade sighed. "I'll let you know if anything comes of this." He glanced at his watch. "She shouldn't be too much longer. There's a bench out there."

John obediently stood. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," said Lestrade. "Oh, one more thing: you will keep that gun of yours—which I know nothing about—handy, won't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Good."

John went to the bench and sat. At the far end of the room, he saw Sally Donovan working on a stack of papers. She looked discontented, and he remembered what Jane had said about her.

After a few minutes, he got up and threaded his way to her desk. "Good morning," he said.

"Oh, lovely," she said, frowning. "Where's your partner in psychopathy?"

"Not here," he said. "I brought in your witness and had a chat with Lestrade."

Her gaze sharpened. "Does she really have amnesia?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Oh. Well, if that's all, I'm very busy." She looked at her pile of forms with loathing. "Paperless office, my arse," she muttered.

John hesitated. "May I ask you a question?"

She sighed. "If it's quick."

"Have you ever thought about your career?"

"My career? You mean, here?"

He leaned on the corner of her desk. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I have it on good authority that you could outrank Lestrade in five years if you put your mind to it."

"Who told you that, the freak?" She rammed a handful of papers into her outbox. "Nice joke."

"No,' said John. "Not Sherlock. Someone else." He let his gaze slide to Lestrade's office. She sat up, and he smiled, knowing what she'd infer. Jane would be proud of him.

A fierce longing shone in Sally's eyes, before it faded. "Yeah, sure. As if the powers that be would let a woman, a _black_ woman, climb that high." She snorted. "Anderson says there's no chance. "

"Anderson," mused John, picking up her stapler and examining it. "You'd outrank him as well, wouldn't you, with one more promotion? And if you'd want to go further than that, you'd probably have to end it with him. Unless he finally sues for divorce."

She opened her mouth, but he held up a conciliatory finger. "I don't like him, that's no secret, so you can dismiss this if you'd like. But I can't help thinking that any man who had your best interests at heart would be encouraging you to take on the powers that be instead of telling you to give up. And you might want to think about that, too."

He saw her try to form an argument. "Why are you telling me all this?"

John shrugged. "We may disagree about consulting detectives and a few other things, Sergeant Donovan, but I know you're a damn good detective, smart and strong. What you'll fight for, you'll get. So, the question is," he said, handing her the stapler, "what do you really want?" He smiled at her and wandered back to his bench.

A few minutes later, he watched Anderson saunter up to Sally, a smile on his face. She started talking, looking hesitant. She glanced at John, and Anderson did, too. John heard Anderson's bark of laughter, and saw Sally slump back. Anderson squeezed her shoulder.

John sighed. It looked like Jane was right.

But then she shrugged off his hand and jumped to her feet. She shoved past Anderson and strode away, her face tight and grim, but she looked at John as she passed and nodded.

He nodded back.

"What was that all about?" asked Jane, looking none the worse for wear.

"Just testing your theory about Sally," he said, feeling his mood lighten a little. "She may surprise you."

"If she doesn't let the rabbit stop her," she said, glancing at Anderson, who was scowling at them both.

They walked to the elevator. "Why a rabbit?" he asked. "Why not a ferret or a weasel?"

"Because rabbits only think of one thing," she said, rolling her eyes. "Plus, ferrets can be useful and even weasels are efficient at _something_. Rabbits are useless and ineffectual. And they bite."

"Sounds like you might have had one, once."

"Yes," she said, stepping onto the elevator. "A lop-eared monster named Andy. He used to chew through his cage and I'd get in trouble for the mess—Oh!" She looked at him. "Damn, thought about it too hard." She jabbed at the button and the door closed. "Why can't I ever remember anything useful?"

"At least you know that your memories aren't gone," he said. "They're coming back, piece by piece. And you gave Anderson a nickname that will haunt him the rest of his days. Sherlock and I will see to it."

She smiled. "There is that," she said.


	5. Chapter 5

John's cell buzzed in his pocket for the fourth inconvenient time in two hours, but he was forced to ignore it again in favor of having another go at removing an engorged tick from the ear canal of a three-year old patient, whose mother grimly held him down and promised him all the ice cream lollies he wanted if he would  _please_  stop  _screaming,_  darling.

John finally succeeded in winkling the entire tick out of its comfortable, if loud, hiding place and dropped it into a small specimen jar. "Just one more moment," he said, disinfecting the site with an alcohol swab before moving well back from the examination table. "There. You can let go now."

She did so, and the patient stopped roaring, clapped a hand over his ear, and glared at John with the righteous fury of a known biter whose target is out of range.

"That should do it. His hearing should be fine." Aside from any damage his own volume might have caused.

The patient's mother eyed the jar. "Should we be worried about disease?"

"It's not a sheep tick, so I shouldn't think Lyme disease would be a problem, and other tick-borne illnesses are fairly rare in London. But here's a list of symptoms to watch out for and some websites if you'd like to read more." He handed her an orange pamphlet, making sure to keep some distance between his fingers and her son's bared teeth.

"Thank you, doctor. Say thank you, darling!" She swept her son out before he could utter a word, for which John was grateful.

He asked the receptionist for ten minutes and sat at his desk to drink his cup of tepid tea. It was turning out to be one of the longest work days of his civilian life. The patients had all been uncommunicative about the nature of their complaints and uncooperative with the treatments, the paperwork was endless, and the tick and his bloody-minded young host had put him even farther behind.

Sarah's attitude wasn't helping, either.

He knew this was unfair. She was being perfectly pleasant about Jane—too pleasant, maybe, for a woman whose . . . male friend had a woman living in his flat and sharing his bathroom. He was happy she wasn't upset, of course he was, but she seemed to view Jane as some sort of  _chaperone_ , which was patently ridiculous.

If  _anyone_  needed a chaperone, it was Jane and . . . though that was unfair as well. Not only did he believe her version of events—not that he was likely to hear Sherlock's—but they hadn't paid each other any unnecessary attention that morning, or at least not after he'd burnt his breakfast.

John shook his head. "Unnecessary"? What was the  _matter_  with him? Was he so used to being Sherlock's only friend that he resented someone else giving him what John hadn't even noticed he needed? And wouldn't have known how to give, if he had noticed.

Perhaps that's why Sherlock hadn't asked him. Or maybe he couldn't ask—if there was one thing Sherlock had more of than brilliance, it was pride.

Had he thought John would react badly?

Would he have?

His phone buzzed again, a welcome distraction this time. Five texts, all from Sherlock. Probably repeated requests for milk and Chinese takeaway. He'd better text back to tell him to make his own arrangements, unless he and Jane wanted to eat very late.

The newest popped up first:

_Jane back safe. No injuries to anyone. -S_

John dropped his phone in his haste to check the other messages in order.

_Jane's cab twenty-five minutes late. Traffic normal. Will check. -S_

It had become a habit since that first case for Sherlock and John to send each other identifying information about the cabs they took when on their own. Likewise, John had texted Sherlock about the one he had pre-paid to take Jane back to Baker's Street after it dropped him off at the clinic after lunch.

_Located cabby. Claims delivered her on time at our door. Saw nothing.—S_

_Cabby cleared. Irreg saw Jane by payphone. She took call, walked around corner, vanished. A car, obv.—S_

John knew Sherlock always had a few of his street people—his irregulars—watching the flat during a case. He'd never felt so glad of it, though Jane had still been taken. But the payphone—that sounded  _familiar_. . .

"Bloody  _Mycroft_ ," he said, as he brought up the next text.

_Bloody MYCROFT—S_

John sat back in his chair and laughed long and loud in relief, much to the disapproval of the elderly woman who had just been ushered through the door to have her corns pared.

 

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

**  
**

John unlocked the door and shut it behind him, leaning against it for a moment before hanging up his jacket. He wanted a hot drink, a hotter shower, and no more unsettling introspection. With luck, Sherlock had deduced the killer's identity  _and_  Jane's so everything could get back to nor—

A gunshot exploded overhead, followed by a short scream, and a thump.

He ran silently up the stairs, wishing he had something more deadly than his phone with him. Easing the door open, he took in a quick glimpse of the room . . . only to let it swing wide in disbelief.

Sherlock and Jane were piled in Sherlock's chair, their tangled legs draped sideways as if they'd been thrown back in an explosion. They were laughing like drains, if drains had been given to helpless giggles.  It was decidedly disturbing, as was the sight of Jane holding John's gun.

"John," she said, when she could. "We've discovered something." She struggled to sit up, waving the Browning in his direction. "Help, please."

John carefully took the gun out of her hand and set it aside before extracting her. "Well?" he said, looking from one to the other.

Sherlock remained where he was, indolent and superior. "She can't shoot."

"I can shoot—anyone can  _shoot_." She drew herself up with dignity, though her lips were twitching. "I can't hit the  _target_."

"Or keep your feet."

"You said you'd keep me steady, you lightweight. I wasn't ready for the noise or the recoil."

Sherlock smirked. "I did warn you."

"Being told and  _knowing_ are two different things."

"They shouldn't be."

She rolled her eyes. "Says the man who had me sticking fingers into coffee mugs full of base liquids this afternoon."

Sherlock rolled his. "Yes, but  _I'm_  the one who told you about the noise and the recoil. That should be definitive enough."

"Yes, and  _I_  told you the fingers were going to dissolve at different rates, didn't I? But you needed to  _know._ "

"You didn't use mine," said John as they glared at each other.

"No, dead people's," said Sherlock, with unconcealed irritation. "You weren't here."

"No," said John, though his teeth. "My  _tea mug_. Tell me you didn't use it."

"I put it next to the skull over there, before we started," said Jane. "The blue one, right?"

"The  _red_ one." John went to the kitchen doorway. "Sherlock! I just bought that—it was supposed to be off-limits!"

"Red?" Jane frowned. "But didn't you use the blue one at breakfast yesterday? No, wait, that wasn't you. And not yesterday." She sank down onto John's chair as if she was afraid her head would spill. "The blue mug is your favorite," she said. "But who are you?"

Sherlock flowed out of the chair to crouch beside her and John was only a moment behind.

"What do you see?" said Sherlock.

"A blue coffee mug," she snapped. Then, "A hand, square, reddened, with freckles on the back. Smooth, short nails, some discolored—a man's hand. Strong, calloused. Your thumb on the back of my hand," she murmured under her breath. "On my cheek . . . you smell like wood shavings and cut grass, and . . . and  _home_." She looked wildly about for someone who wasn't there—and her expression when she realized he wasn't made John reach for her hand. She gripped it in both of hers. "That's it."

"Nothing else?" said Sherlock.

"Don't force it," said John, earning himself an impatient look.

"Only feelings," said Jane, her cheeks going pink.

"Which ones?" asked Sherlock.

She cleared her throat and let go of John. "Personal ones."

"And?"

"Sherlock."

"I'm not being prurient, John. Any information may be useful."

She sighed. "All right." She met Sherlock's intent gaze with her own. "I need you, go away, you make me want too much, I'm scared, you're mine, never leave me."

To John's surprise, a flush crept over Sherlock's cheeks. "Yes, well . . . We can rule out a parent, then."

"Yes," she said, still looking at him. "I think we can."

They looked at each other in silence.

"Headache?" asked John.

"A little," she said. "I'm cold."

"I'll make you some tea."

She shook her head. "Black coffee? Two sugars?"

"More than that, you've had a shock." He stood and fetched the blue mug from the mantelpiece before going into the kitchen. It looked and smelled clean enough, but he scrubbed it anyway, rinsing it twice with boiling water before adding the coffee.

When he came out, Jane was on the couch, her porridge-colored cardigan round her shoulders. She took the mug and huddled around it, looking vulnerable for the first time since he'd met her.

"None for me?" said Sherlock, who was slumped low in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin.

"Someone used up all the cups. But here." John reached into his pocket for the specimen jar. "First sign of spring." He tossed it to Sherlock and sat on the opposite arm of the couch, just right distance from Jane so she'd feel included, but not obliged.

"A sheep tick? No, brown dog. Well-fed, though."

"That's the reason I didn't reply to your texts until it was all over—I was too busy digging it out of darling boy's ear."

"Ah. I'd wondered—still, nothing much you could have done." Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Any bite marks this time?"

"Thankfully not."

"Good. Remind me to give Lestrade the boy's name—in eight years or so there's going to be a rash of vandalism and petty theft. He might want to know who's behind it."

"Send it to him in a sealed envelope with a date on it—you know you've always wanted to." Their shared grin did more to set John right than a drink and a good night's sleep. "So, what did Mycroft have to say for himself?"

"Jane should tell it. Jane?"

"Hmmm?"

"John would like to know what you thought of my brother."

"Oh. The family resemblance is unmistakable," she paused for Sherlock's snort, "which was a relief at the time. I was afraid that assistant of his might do something drastic."

"Why?" asked John.

"I took her Blackberry away."

Sherlock snickered.

John gaped at her. "You did  _what_?"

"She wouldn't look at me while I was speaking and she wouldn't answer my questions."

"What did she  _do_?" John imagined not-Anthea's thumbs twitching in midair for a few seconds, before she went for Jane's throat.

"She told me that she could make it so I'd never existed, and I told her that would be very difficult. First, she'd have to get her handheld back and if she tried, I'd smash it. And second, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson knew that I did exist and they would never let it go until they found me." Jane grimaced. "I think she might have tried anyway. But once I saw Mr. Holmes, I knew it was an empty threat."

Sherlock grunted.

John had never associated Mycroft or his associates with empty threats, but he let it go. "I assume he asked you to spy on Sherlock?"

"He did. And on you, too. Which reminds me, I've already paid for the things Mrs. Hudson bought, but I'd like to start paying my share of the meals—"

"You mean, you accepted?"

"Of course. I can't freeload on you until my memory comes back—who knows when that will be? And I can't get a job without identification. It seemed like a practical solution."

"See, John," said Sherlock. "If you'd bothered to think it through when you were asked, you wouldn't have to worry about feral children with sharp teeth."

He ignored this. "So, you're planning on reporting on us to Mycroft? What on earth can you tell him that he doesn't already know?"

"'Anything of relevance,' which could be everything or nothing. But since I'm splitting the fee with you, I'll ask for your input on the next report. All I could tell him this time was that you're trying to find out who I am and who might be trying to kill me."

"I'm surprised Mycroft couldn't tell you exactly who you are."

"He implied that he could, but he can't. That worries him. He doesn't really want to keep tabs on you two. He wants to keep tabs on me. He's keeping his enemies close."

"His enemies?"

"Half the Western world and two-thirds of the East," muttered Sherlock.

"Anyone who might be a potential threat to his brother," she said. "And by extension, you."

John glanced at Sherlock. "You're a threat to . . . to us?"

"Potential threat." She took a sip of coffee. "Personally, I think he's too attached to the status quo, but—"

"Is anyone else hungry?" said Sherlock, suddenly.

"Uh, sure," said John, quite willing to change the subject. "I can go get—"

"No, I'll go." He launched himself up and across the room. "Chinese? Right. Be back soon." The door did not quite slam shut.

"Either he's going to go strangle his brother," said John. "Or something about your case just struck him."

"Or he was uncomfortable with the conversation."

"Sherlock never runs from uncomfortable conversation," said John. "He revels in it."

"Not," she said, "when it involves him. Right?"

"I suppose . . ." Except Sherlock had never run from his brother's opinions before. Walked away in order to annoy, perhaps, but never without a retort. He should be used to his brother's innuendos—what was so different now?

John scrubbed at his face. Jane might not be a potential threat, but she certainly seemed to be a catalyst for difficult questions.

"John?' she said, as if she'd read his mind. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course." He braced himself, but for once, it had nothing to do with him.

"Do you think . . . do you think the reason I can't remember the murder is that the man with the blue mug killed that woman?" Her voice was remote. "Do you think that I could have followed him and caught him in the act . . . so he had to get rid of me, too? Do you think I could love someone who could do that?"

"No," he said, after a moment. "I don't. I don't think you could. And the first thing you remembered about him was something normal. You set aside that mug for him, even if you didn't know it at the time—you aren't scared  _of_  him. But," he ventured, "I think you might be scared of  _losing_  him?"

She took a ragged breath and let it out. "You make a pretty good therapist yourself, doctor."

"Occupational hazard," he said, with a smile. "More coffee?"

"Yes, please," she said, getting up with her mug and following him into the kitchen.

"Sometimes I think I must be insane to live here, like this," he said, looking at the beakers and cups and fingers. "Sarah would think so."

"Would you leave, if she asked you to?"

"To live with her, you mean?" He thought about it. "Her place is closer to the clinic, and I can't see her living here. But that isn't likely to happen for a long time, if ever. We're still getting to know each other, really."

He admired Sarah, he liked spending time with her, and he still wanted to sleep with her, though all he'd been allowed so far was actual sleep  _without_  human contact, nonjudgmental or otherwise. But . . . he wasn't in love with her, not yet, and he wasn't looking to move out. Even for a fridge which had never held bits of cadaver or mugs that weren't used in the dissolving of same.

"No, I mean, would you ever end your relationship with him? For what she can give you that you think he can't?"

He frowned. End his friendship with Sherlock? Never run over rooftops or get shot at or feel the exhilaration of solving a case, of bringing down a criminal, of saving lives with someone whose mind was so extraordinary and who saw the world in such a fascinating way?

Would Sarah ask that of him? She didn't like Sherlock, and perhaps for reason, but he'd hoped . . . no, he'd  _assumed_  . . . no.

If he were being honest with himself, he'd always considered his life with Sherlock to be  _here_ , and his possible relationship with Sarah over  _there_. Separate. A Venn diagram with only himself in the overlap.

And what did that say about him? What did it say about the chances of any future with Sarah? Or with anyone else, for that matter?

Because Sherlock . . . Sherlock was a given. Full stop.

"No," he said. "I couldn't. Not for anything I can think of."

She nodded. "Good," she said, her vulnerable expression telling him that she was thinking of the man she only partially remembered, but knew she loved. "That's good."

John wondered if Sherlock would ever allow himself to fall in love like that . . . and what would happen to Mycroft's status quo if he did.

He also wished Sherlock would get back with dinner. His stomach was starting to hurt.


	6. Chapter 6

John's fingers moved over the keys of his laptop as he updated his personal—and heavily passworded—file, the place where he recorded the things he didn't post on his public blog. Such as his possession and occasional use of a firearm, the astounding number of times he'd been a witness or accessory to housebreaking, the sporadic nightmares that still shook him awake . . .

And now his acknowledgment that a life without Sherlock Holmes in it wouldn't be worth living.

No, not  _a_  life.  _His_  life.

He rubbed his chin and looked at the words on the screen. He probably could post it. Though some of his followers—the law enforcement contingent—might see it as sarcasm, most would assume it was a natural declaration of friendship, considering his admiration for his flatmate's brilliance and his own confessed addiction to risk and danger. He knew a handful would read it as proof of a romantic relationship, though that sort of thing had never bothered him before.

It didn't bother him  _now_ , not really . . . But it still felt too personal an admission to share, as if it might change  _everything . . ._ it he could just figure out what it  _meant_.

He saved the file and started working on a post about the man who had tried to keep his stepdaughter's trust fund in the family by having a torrid online affair with her so she wouldn't date anyone else. It had worked, too, until his wife had found out and, as he'd claimed, "misunderstood"—

"John. John!" shouted Sherlock from the kitchen, where he and Jane were recording data from yesterday's experiment. How they could stand to do so was beyond him—he had a strong stomach, but the cloying odor of decay was—

"John, the  _phone_ , please. Can't you hear it?"

John sighed, saved his file and tracked the chirping phone to the mantel, which had been tucked into the same Persian slipper in which Sherlock kept his supply of nicotine patches. "Sherlock Holmes' phone, John Watson speaking."

" _Has you playing secretary now, does he_?" asked Lestrade.

"I'd rather answer phones than go near the kitchen right now," said John, with complete truth. "May I take a message?"

" _Tell him there's a problem with the Robert Cross alibi and also a connection to the car you described. Mr. Cross has agreed to come in for questioning, and I'd like Sherlock to observe his answers. And make it clear to him that I mean_ observe _, will you_?"

"I'll do my best."

" _Bring your houseguest, too, please. I don't suppose she has an identity, yet_?"

"I was about to ask you."

" _Her prints aren't_   _in any of our databases. We've contacted the American embassy and immigration. Nothing to do now but wait, since we can't risk putting her face on the telly_."

"I'm surprised no one's reported her missing, yet."

_"They may have—it takes time for the reports to come to us, and more time to sort them all. Half the country is missing at any given time."_  His voice sharpened. " _Is this just wishful thinking on your part, or could Sherlock tell from the set of her ears that she's got family somewhere?"_

John told him about the man Jane remembered, though he stopped short of repeating her feelings verbatim. "I suppose it could be an old memory, but it's something."

_"Yes, we'll just vet the countryside for carpenters with nice lawns who like the color blue. Sorry, long morning. See you in two hours?"_

"Yes, all right." John ended the call, tucked the phone into the slipper, and went into the kitchen to pry the mad scientists away from their data samples.

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

Robert Cross would have been a handsome man without the dark circles under his reddened eyes. He sat at the end of the long table, with his broad shoulders hunched, as if someone had kicked him in the heart.

Of course, someone had, John knew.  Twice.

Sherlock stared, unblinking, through the one-way glass, his nose almost pressed against it. "Who's the other one, with the sodden handkerchief?" he asked, indicating the be-suited man with thick ginger hair who was seated adjacent to Cross. His eyes were red, too, but from the looks of things, it was the result of a head cold instead of grief.

"Thomas King, his solicitor," said Lestrade. "Or rather, one of Gerard-Dynotech's solicitors."

"How very American of him," said Sherlock. "No offense meant."

"Yes it was," said Jane, standing at the glass in a pose eerily identical to Sherlock's. Her gaze, as far as John could tell, hadn't left Thomas King.

Sherlock ignored her. "The car that tried to kill us was from Gerard-Dynotech's car park?"

"Yeah," said Lestrade. "And returned there, too, damaged as it was. No fingerprints, but there were white dog hairs on the driver's seat, and Janet Cross owns—owned—a bichon frise."

"Hmmm. Who's questioning him?"

"I am." He pointed at Sherlock. "Stay. Here."

Sherlock curled his lip but didn't move as the DI left.

John positioned himself at the door, just in case. He knew he had little chance of stopping a determined Sherlock, but perhaps he could slow him down a little.

On the other side of the glass, Lestrade entered the room, introduced himself, and sat opposite the solicitor, placing a file in front of him. "Thank you for coming in, Mr. Cross."

Cross nodded. "I want to find out what happened to Janet."

"So do we. So . . . could you tell me how hair from your dog came to be found in a car that was used in an attempt to kill the only witness to your wife's murder?"

"What?" Cross straightened in his chair. "When? What car?"

"Two nights ago. The car was reported stolen from your company's car park. It was returned there, too, minus some paint, which was left at the scene."

"Are you accusing Mr. Cross of something?" asked King, with a strong Scots burr.

Jane flinched.

"At this point, Mr. Cross is only helping us with our inquiries. In fact, I'm surprised he felt the need to bring a solicitor with him."

"Thomas volunteered," said Cross. "He thought I might need legal advice." From his expression, he now thought so, too.

"How considerate," said Sherlock.

Jane shook her head.

"What about airplane schedules? Do you know much about that?" Lestrade pulled out some papers. "Tell me again when you left for Switzerland, and when you came back?"

Cross dutifully repeated the dates. "You—I mean, the police—called to tell me about . . . about Janet's death, and I flew back immediately."

"Your mobile, was it?"

He nodded. "Why?"

"There's some question about whether you flew back after your wife's murder, or if you returned a day earlier."

"What question?" asked the solicitor.

"Interesting," said Sherlock.

"There are conflicting company receipts." Lestrade slid the photocopies across the table. "And two tickets on different airlines paid for by your company credit card."

Cross looked confused. "I don't know anything about this. I exchanged my return ticket for an earlier flight when you called me. This one," he said, tapping it.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "And did you know what your wife was doing while you were away, Mr. Cross?"

His jaw clenched. "No, of course not."

"I can't believe you're implying that Mr. Cross killed his—" King interrupted himself with a sneeze, mopping his nose with his handkerchief and waving away the offer of a tissue from Lestrade.

"He's lying," said Sherlock and Jane together.

"About the alibi or his wife?" asked John, then, "Jane, are you all right?" John grabbed a chair from the corner and forced her to sit in it before she fell down. "Breathe," he said. " _Breathe._ "

"I  _am_." She drew in a shaky breath, and another. "I'm okay. It's not him. The hands are all wrong."

"No," said Sherlock, "The span is sufficient. He did it." He leapt for the door.

"Sherlock!" shouted John, but he was gone.

"That's not what I  _meant_ ," said Jane.

"I know," said John, bringing another chair over and sitting beside her. "The solicitor—he looks like your friend with the blue mug?"

She nodded. "I think so. But I still can't remember his face. Why can't I—what's  _wrong_  that I can't remember _?_ "

He put his arm around her, as he had done with Harry when she'd been a child in need of comfort, and she leaned against him for a second. Her hair smelled of Sherlock's shampoo and faintly of the lemon she'd used to rinse the odor of the experiment out of her hair. He wondered if Sherlock had bothered to do the same, and if the acidic juice might have erased the scent of burnt match.

At that moment, Sherlock walked into the interrogation room and shut the door.

"Hello," he said, with a brief smile.

Lestrade went still. "Is this absolutely necessary?"

"I believe it is, yes," said Sherlock, strolling behind Mr. Cross. "Don't mind me. Carry on." And with that, he bent over, closed his eyes, and sniffed at the man's shoulder.

"Who are you?" asked Cross, drawing back to look at him. "What are you doing?"

"Mr. Holmes is one of our consultants," said Lestrade, his voice strained as Holmes sniffed an indignant Thomas King. "He gathers and analyzes, ah, important information for us."

"Important information?" The solicitor scoffed. "What, like my brand of aftershave?"

"Your talc, actually" said Sherlock, straightening. "It's a rather masculine scent for baby powder, isn't it? I suppose it helps mask some unfortunate problem? You have a bit on the back of your collar, by the way. You shouldn't use so much of it—aside from the strong aroma, you got it all over your victim the other day. Well, one of your victims."

John blinked. "The powder on Janet Cross. You said it proved the killer was a man."

"Not the powder, exactly" said Jane. "The scent."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said King.

"I'm sure the forensics division will be able to explain it to you in words of one syllable. Oh, and here's a— pardon me." Sherlock reached out and plucked something from the back of Thomas's suit. He held it up between thumb and forefinger. "Dog hair gets everywhere, too. White dog hair. You did say white, didn't you, Lestrade?"

"I may have," said Lestrade, leaning back in his chair.

King coughed. "I visited Robert the other day, to offer my condolences. Didn't I? Must have picked it up then."

Robert Cross stared at him, a sharp intelligence to his expression that wasn't there before. "Yes," he said. "You did. And you made a fuss over the dog, too."

"I like dogs."

"When we met, you told me you were allergic," said Cross. "Deathly allergic. I forgot about that."

King started to retort, but sneezed instead. "I have a spring cold."

"And a rash," said Sherlock. "If you keep scratching at your arms like that, you'll get an infection."

King put his hands in his lap. "This is ridiculous! I didn't agree to be questioned like this."

Lestrade looked up from his note-taking. "How would you like to be questioned, Mr. King?"

"Tell me, Detective Inspector," Sherlock said, "Who supplied those receipts and tickets?"

"Gerard-Dynotech's legal department."

"Curious," said Sherlock. "I would have thought accounting would take care of that kind of thing."

"They do," said Cross.

"Every request for company records goes through legal," said King, folding his arms. "You know that, Robert."

Lestrade looked at him, his pen tapping the table. "We didn't ask for those records. They were sent to us before we submitted an official request."

"Then may I suggest you speak with someone in the accounting department?" Sherlock smiled. "I'm sure they can set the matter straight. Oh, dear, Mr. King, perhaps you could have used more talc after all."

Robert Cross looked at King. "You killed Janet, then tried to frame me for it?"

King shook his head and sneezed again.

"No, no," said Sherlock, helpfully. "He slept with her first,  _then_  killed her,  _then_  tried to frame you for it." He smirked. "Not very well, obviously."

King growled at him. "Why on  _earth_  would I do that?"

"Sleep with her? Not really my area, but I suppose it might have something to do with your troubled marriage—or perhaps it was the other way 'round? Regardless, I'm disappointed—I was hoping for something a bit more . . .  _original_."

King gaped at him, then snarled, "Piss off, you. This is complete bollocks—circumstantial evidence. If anyone's being framed, it's  _me._ "

Jane stood up. "My turn." Before John could stop her, she slipped out of the room.

He glanced at the angry solicitor and followed, swearing under his breath.

She had a good lead, but he caught up with her at the door to the interrogation room, which was blocked by a uniformed officer. "We're expected," he told the officer, and ushered her inside before the man could say anything.

"Why?" Robert Cross was saying, his face anguished. "Why did you do it?"

"For the last time," shouted King. "I did not kill her! I had no  _reason_  to kill your wife!"

"You lie," said Jane. "On both counts."

King's head whipped around and his eyes widened in shock. He leapt to his, sending his chair flying. "You!" he hollered.

Lestrade knocked his own chair over to get to the man as both John and Sherlock moved in front of Jane. But before King could take a step, Robert Cross grabbed his shoulder and struck him in the face, sending him crashing to the floor.

"Robert!" wheezed King, when he could. "It isn't true—whatever she says she saw. I  _wasn't there._ I didn't strangle Janet!"

"Lestrade," said Sherlock.

"I heard." He made a motion to the camera over the door on his way around the table.

The killer, unaware he'd just blundered, continued to babble as Lestrade pulled him to his feet. " . . . I didn't! I never slept with her, I never—"

"Of course you did," said Cross, hands clenched. "Janet told me all about it after she found out you worked for GDT. But she never would have accepted you as a client if she'd known. I understood, Thomas! Mistakes happen, and I didn't catch it either. I was going to tell you not to worry when I got back. But you . . . you killed her." Tears streamed down his cheeks. "You didn't have to kill her!"

King stared at him. "You . . . you  _understood_?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "That's new."

Sally Donovan and another officer arrived to take Thomas King away. John noted that Sally made no remarks at all or even looked at Sherlock or Jane. She did, however, send him a small smile, which he returned.

"Bag the dog hair, too," said Lestrade.

"Don't bother," said Sherlock, brushing off his hands. "I took it from Mr. Cross. For effect," he added, as Lestrade stared at him. "Do you have enough evidence without it?"

"We have enough to hold him until we can dig up the rest. Your memory came back just in time, Miss," he told Jane.

"No, it didn't," she said. "I just knew he was lying."

Lestrade looked at John, who shrugged. "You told me to bring both of them."

The DI sighed. "Good point."

Jane went over to Robert Cross, who had dropped back into his seat. She righted King's chair and sat. "You knew your wife was having sex with other men?" she asked, her voice gentle. "For money?"

Lestrade muttered something about job security, but didn't interrupt, even to retrieve his papers. Instead, he pulled his notebook and a spare pen out of his pocket and waited for Cross to answer. Nearby, Sherlock leaned against the wall and watched. John joined him.

Robert Cross lifted his head and took a deep breath. "Of course I knew. And it wasn't  _for_  the money—that was just a way to separate _them_ from . . .from _us_ ," he said, his voice breaking. "She loved  _me_. No matter who she saw, no matter what she did with them, she came home to  _me._ "

Jane fixed her golden eyes on him. "But she didn't love you enough to stop?"

He blinked at her. "I never asked her to. Why would I? It was part of who she was. She needed their admiration, their excitement . . . and I needed her happiness, her optimism . . . She made me feel special." He tapped himself over his heart. "She chose  _me._ She needed  _me._ "

Jane hesitated. "But wouldn't it damage your career, if people found out? Weren't you afraid they would think less of you?"

"That's why I lied before," he said, looking wretched. "People don't understand, they just don't. That's why she was so careful," he said. "We always looked over the new ones together—I did the background checks. We didn't catch T-Thomas because he used his brother's name . . . it wasn't until we all went to the last company awards banquet a few weeks ago that she figured it out. She broke it off, and I'd planned to talk with him. No one would find out that he'd hired an escort—not from us— and we'd give him back his money and ask him to keep quiet about Janet. It's always worked before," he added, on a sob. "If I'd just tried harder to talk to him before I left . . . "

"You didn't know," said Jane, squeezing his arm and giving Lestrade a speaking look. "It  _wasn't_  your fault." And she patted his back as he buried his face in his hands and cried.

"Well that was hardly worth the effort," said Sherlock, with disdain.

"I thought you played it very well," said John.

"You think so?"

"Yes. King told you to piss off and everything."

Sherlock chuckled. "He did, didn't he—sad, soggy, little man that he is. And I suppose we still have the mystery of Jane—far more interesting."

"She certainly is." He looked at Sherlock looking at Jane, who was still patting Cross and talking to him softly. "Um, you have one of those white hairs on your cheek, no, to the left, no it's stuck—wait, let me." He reached, gently scraping it off with his thumb. He felt Sherlock shiver under his touch and saw his throat work as he swallowed. "Got it—sorry, did I scratch you?"

"No," said Sherlock, scrubbing at his cheek, "No, it's fine." He pushed off the wall and went to start an argument with Lestrade, leaving John with a dog hair, the lingering scent of lemon juice and burnt match, and a strange feeling he'd crossed into alien territory without a map.

He glanced at Jane, who was looking back at him, smiling a smile that could only be described as wicked.

She winked.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

It took some time for Robert Cross to collect himself. By the time he was ready to be interviewed again,  _without_  benefit of dubious counsel, an officer from the Missing Persons Bureau had arrived to speak with Jane.

"The MPB is the actual reason I asked John to bring you," Lestrade told her. "Not that you haven't been extremely helpful—more so than some people."

Sherlock ignored this in favor of giving the officer an arrogant once over. "Do you people know who she is?"

"Not yet," said the officer, with a benign smile. "But we soon will."

Sherlock issued a sound so polite it was rude.

Jane didn't move. John couldn't read her expression, but he thought she might be wary of discovering more about herself—and the unknown man who seemed so important to her.

What would it be like, he wondered, to not remember who he was? To not remember his family or . . . he glanced at Sherlock . . . or his dearest friends? To not know whether amnesia was a curse or a blessing?

"Do you want me to come with you?" he asked.

Jane sighed. "No, I'll be fine." She let the officer usher her out of the room, narrowly missing Sally, who drew Lestrade into a low conversation.

"She lost her memory?" asked Robert Cross.

"Partially," said John. "She doesn't remember who she is or how she came to be in Tottingham Station in the first place."

"That's terrible."

"Yes," said Sherlock, throwing himself into a chair. "It would be helpful if she remembered the pertinent bits in time for the trial."

"She may have a different idea of the pertinent bits," said John.

"Yes, fine," said Sherlock, waving this away. "Perhaps King knew her before he tried to knock her brains out," Sherlock told Lestrade, who had returned to the table. "Perhaps she wasn't trying to help Mrs. Cross—perhaps she was following  _him_."

"He's still denying at the top of his lungs that he knows anything about her at all—when he isn't sneezing," said Lestrade. "It's going to take some time to get anything resembling the truth out of him. Donovan is going over with a team right now to search his flat in case he kept anything of hers, but I suspect it's all long gone."

"His brother—the one whose name he pinched," said Sherlock. "Perhaps he might be able to provide some information. Do you remember the name?"

Robert Cross shook his head. "I'm sorry, I just can't think of it," he said. "The surname wasn't King, I know that. I think it began with an M? I'm sorry. I'd be glad to look it up in my files."

"You kept files on all of your wife's . . . . clients?" asked Lestrade.

"Her lovers," said Robert Cross, without a hint of embarrassment. "Yes, a background file on each. I know it seems odd to you, Inspector, but I did care for her safety."

"Why didn't you look them up when you arrived home?" asked Sherlock. "Surely you suspected that one of them might have done it—and you did think that King would be upset."

"I looked at her appointment book—she didn't have any meetings that day. She was robbed, so I thought it was a random mugging. And I  _knew_  Thomas—he seemed fine when he came over to tell me how s-sorry he was . . . I thought it was sympathy, maybe an apology for, well, you know. I-I didn't think he was a, a—"

"A desperate and pathetic man whose job and reputation was the only thing he had left? No, I suppose you wouldn't," said Sherlock. "How soon can you get the brother's name? And his file, if you still have it?"

"It's in my safety deposit box. I was going to destroy it, but I didn't get the chance." He took a deep breath, then looked at his watch. "Tomorrow?"

Sherlock nodded. "I'll accompany you, if you don't mind. Should we say around eleven at your bank? I have an errand to run first."

"All right. I bank at—"

"Lloyds on High Road."

Robert Cross blinked at him. "The police pulled my financials?"

"No."

"But how did you—"

Sherlock sighed. 'You never asked what your wife was doing near that particular station, though you said she had no appointments and the station itself is closed to the public. Obviously, you live within walking distance. You would want to keep the information on your wife's lovers close to hand, and the Lloyd's on High Road is right next to Tottingham Station and offers several sizes of safe deposit boxes."

"Are you still willing to look after Miss, er, Doe?" Lestrade asked John. "I'm sure we could find a stipend or something."

"Of course we are," said John. "Don't worry about that."

"It's restful to have someone around who doesn't need constant, tedious explanations," said Sherlock.

"Thank you very much," said John, mildly, feeling as though he was on solid footing now that the insults had started.

To his surprise, Sherlock snorted. "I said  _tedious_ , a description that rarely fits you, John. But I would like to revisit the sleeping arrangements."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

John rolled his eyes. "If you clean the kitchen—the  _entire_  kitchen— _and_  buy me a new tea mug, I'll take the couch tonight and you can have my room. We'll alternate every other night while Jane's with us."

"Done."

"And witnessed by an officer of the law," John said.

"Leave me out of it, please," said Lestrade. "Mr. Cross, you're free to go."

"Thank you, Inspector," he said and got up to leave. He looked tired, but no longer beaten. "Tomorrow at eleven," he said to Sherlock, then turned to John. "Tell her . . . tell her thanks, would you?"

John nodded, and on impulse held out his hand. "I'm very sorry for your loss," he said.

Cross shook it briefly. "Thank you." He left.

"Lunch?" asked John.

"Starved," said Sherlock. "Let's see how Jane is faring, shall we?"

"Keep me informed, please," called Lestrade as they headed for the door.

"Likewise," said Sherlock, without bothering to turn around. He scanned the hallway. "Where do you suppose they've abducted—"

The door to the left opened and Jane marched out, her expression a dire warning for anyone who tried to stop her. Her eyes flashed at John and Sherlock. "I'm done."

"But, miss," said the MPB officer, trailing in Jane's wake, "you're quite safe now. A press conference would be the best—"

"No." Jane stalked down the hall, the officer trying to keep pace.

Sherlock and John exchanged glances and followed.

"Now, miss," said the officer, in exactly the wrong tone. "Don't you  _want_  to know who you are?"

"I know who I am," Jane bit out. "I'm someone who prefers to find out who I  _was_  without inviting every crackpot in the country to call in and guess. I'm not your ticket to becoming the MPB's spokesperson—find another spacecase poster child."

"But your friends and family—"

"Haven't reported me missing, so they either don't give a damn or they don't exist."

"Without the Bureau's resources, you won't—"

"I know a consulting detective. I'll consult  _him_." She stalked off towards the elevators.

"Is she always this difficult?" asked the officer, the cheerful façade souring. "We are trying to help her, poor addled thing."

"Are you always this patronizing?" asked Sherlock, with his best aristocratic glare. "She's lost her memory, not her majority. No wonder you're about to get sacked—this time the missing person was _actually on hand_ , but you seem to have sent her into hiding. Well done, you."

"How did—how  _dare_  you!"

"Oh, go back to geriatric nursing—most of _them_ won't realize you only do it for ego." He turned and walked on, leaving the officer red-faced and gaping. "Not good?" he murmured, a few steps later.

"Just right," said John, matching him stride for stride.

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

Over lunch, Jane persuaded Sherlock to tell her about some of his cases, though John noticed it wasn't difficult to convince him.

"There are one or two early ones that were interesting enough," he said. "You can read John's blogfor the more recent ones—apparently, it's quite popular with those who prefer drama to deduction." And he'd launched into a story about a rich man whose murder had been attempted four times by four different methods during the course of one afternoon by three of his heirs.

It would have been fascinating, if John could have concentrated. Instead, he found himself paying more attention to his friend than his words. Small observations, nothing significant, but nothing he'd bothered to notice before.

Such as the way Sherlock always paused at dramatic intervals to take a bite of his ginger duck before continuing, effortlessly manipulating the chopsticks as if they were extensions of his long, sensitive fingers. The way his dark curly hair brushed his high forehead when he looked down and how his eyes glowed with satisfaction as he explained a particularly clever bit of problem solving. The cheekbones underneath the smooth skin.

The way that skin had felt under John's thumb . . .

John touched his own cheek. He'd never had a heavy beard himself and he'd shaved that morning, but he could still feel a light dusting. Sherlock never seemed to have stubble—the concept seemed ludicrous . . .

" . . . of course he confessed in the end; there wasn't anything else he could do—what  _are_  you staring at, John?" said Sherlock, putting down his chopsticks. "Have I suddenly grown another nose?"

"Sorry," said John, trying for casual. "My razor isn't doing the job anymore and I realized I've never seen yours in the bathroom. What do you use?"

"Depilatory cream, once a week," said Sherlock, as if the answer was obvious. "Waste of time, shaving every morning."

"Oh." Perhaps that explained the burnt match scent. John rubbed his chin. "Mind if I try it sometime?"

Sherlock paused, his gaze moving over John's face. "If you like," he said, sounding reluctant.

"I like a man with a bit of a beard," said Jane, picking up her small teacup. "Not prickly, exactly, but enough to provide . . . texture." She took a sip and smiled. "Maybe it's the contrast."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yes. Well. The reason the confession was so amusing . . ."

John concentrated on his own plate for the rest of the meal, refusing to entertain any curiosity about Sherlock's whisker preferences.

They were none of his business, anyway.

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

After lunch, John stopped by the clinic to tackle the vaccination paperwork he'd promised Sarah he'd finish, in payment for her covering his clinic hours. She wasn't there, which came as something of a relief, but he didn't dwell on why— he only shut himself up in a spare office and had the whole lot done in under two hours.

Returning home, he found Jane alone at the small table in the living room, reading his blog on his laptop. "Hope you don't mind," she said. "I was curious."

"Not at all," he said. "Where's—"

"He went to St. Bart's to dispose of the infamous finger experiment."

"Good. I hope he doesn't come back with anything else." He frowned, thinking of the smell. "He couldn't have taken a cab."

She tapped the scroll bar on the screen. "No, a woman picked him up. Molly, he said."

"Molly Hooper. She works at the morgue. "

"He's not in love with her."

John snorted and sat in his chair. "I shouldn't think so. He treats her very badly. Though  _he_  thinks he's being cruel to be kind."

She nodded. "Fine line."

"Oh, yes. And he doesn't always know when he's crossed it."

"Isn't that your job?"

"Apparently, though he doesn't always listen. So," he said, changing the subject. "What do you think?"

"These case studies are good," she said, turning to face him. "You have real talent, John. Have you thought of selling them instead of posting them for free?"

"Selling them? You mean to magazines?" He'd toyed with the idea, but the only magazines he could find that might accept non-fiction mysteries preferred shorter and more scientific ones than he could manage.

"Why not? Or maybe cut out the middle man and self-publish in an online format. Or you could sell subscription access—you'd need a website, I think, but that's not hard to set up."

He blinked at her. "Those are . . . therapeutic. No one would pay for them."

"Of course they would. And you could still blog those everyday bits and pieces of yours. You've developed a brand with them already."

"A  _brand_? Jane, I don't think—"

"What are your blog stats?"

"I'm not sure." She handed him the laptop and he logged in and handed it back. "Here. I suppose it's not too bad."

Her eyes widened. "That's a readership. That's a  _substantial_ ,  _growing_  readership. John, you'd be an idiot not to take advantage. It could mean financial freedom."

"Freedom to do what? Buy an extra coffee on the way to my real job?"

She gave him a look. "For whatever you really wanted to do."

"I don't know. It seems so . . . mercenary."

She grinned. "That's because it is. But writers have to eat, too—just like doctors. And the malpractice insurance is a lot less expensive. Look, why not try it once? Sell one of your stories online for, say, two pounds-fifty and see what happens. Do you have anything in the hopper?"

"The hopper. . . oh. Yes, there's one or two." He got up and leaned over her shoulder to call up the folder. "Jane—how do you know about all this?"

She frowned. "I don't know, really . . . I was reading along and the idea struck me, so I looked up a few mystery author sites, you know, the Murderati group, Laurie King, Chuck Wendig, Emma Rheardon, the Top Suspense Group."

John didn't know, but he only nodded. "How did you know to search for those ones?"

"I must have read them," she said, her face clearing. "Maybe I'm a librarian . . . Anyway, most of these authors sell their stories in electronic format from their sites." She opened the first document.

He decided that he'd rather not watch her while she read. "Cuppa?" he asked.

"I'm covered, thanks," she said, tapping the glass of water on her left. "But there's a present for you on the counter."

The first present was a remarkably clean kitchen that smelled of nothing more than bleach and lemon. The second was in a box by the sink.

It was a mug, in red, with  _John's Mug, Don't Touch_  in white lettering on one side and a skull and crossbones on the other. "This is great," he called. "You shouldn't have."

"I didn't. He had it made while you were out. Special rush job."

John turned it in his hands. "Special," he said to himself. "He must really hate sleeping on the couch."

But he smiled as he filled the kettle.

Two cups and three chapters of the Doyle biography later, he wandered back into the living room. "Well?"

"This one about the speckled bracelet is long enough to be a novella," she said. "I did some editing—just grammar and spelling, a little rearranging, hope you don't mind—and I think it's ready to go. Do you know any artists who might agree to rig up a cover?"

"Um. . . . My sister-in-law is a commercial artist, but—"

"Call her."

"Okay," he said. "I will."

There was a pause.

"What, now?"

She rolled her eyes. "Of course now. With luck, she can have something for us—I mean, you—within a couple of days. Strike while the iron is hot, John."

"Hot stove lids and now irons," he said, pulling out his phone. "What's next?"

"Cover art. Followed by formatting choices and probably an unholy argument about pricing, which I will win." said Jane, with a smile.

John shook his head, but found Clara's number. "Hello, Clara? It's John. No, it's you I'd like to speak to. I was wondering, um. Has Harry ever mentioned my blog? Oh, you do? Thanks. Well, I'm thinking of offering one of the case studies as an eBook, just to try, which apparently means I need a cover. I was hoping you'd know someone who might do it cheap—you will? You  _have_? No, this is a new one, but—of course you can, I'll e-mail it to you right away. The concept?" he lifted his eyebrows at Jane.

"Something subtle," she said. "And no snakes, it'll give the whole thing away."

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

Sherlock had come home well after dinner to find the battle over the price of "The Case of the Speckled Bracelet" well underway, and after minimal explanation, cast the deciding vote in Jane's favor.

"One of  _my_  cases, going for a  _pound_ ," he said, nostrils flaring. "Really John, is that all you think my efforts are worth?"

John gave up. "That's all I think  _my_ efforts are worth," he said. "But I can see both of you are dead set on humiliating me. Thank you for the mug," he added, lifting it. "I like it."

"I couldn't stand another night on that couch," said Sherlock, with a sniff. "Besides, I couldn't have you claiming I was trying to poison you—too many people believe me capable of it." But he smiled.

Jane stood and stretched. "I'm going to bed," she said. "There's nothing more to do until Clara gets us—I mean, you—those sketches."

"Right. Thanks, Jane."

"No problem. It was fun," she said. She started to say more, shook her head, and went upstairs.

"I'm a bit fatigued myself," said Sherlock, and he did look it. There were dark marks under his eyes, and his lips looked grayish.

"Are you all right?" asked John, though he'd seen this before—the late nights were finally catching up.

"Nothing a full night in a real bed won't put right." He yawned hugely. "I assume I've upheld my side of the bargain?"

"Admirably. Go ahead." John headed for the kitchen. "I've changed the sheets, but I forgot to take up your pillow."

"Right. Good night then."

"Good night." John poured out the kettle, read until the noises from the bathroom stopped, and went up to get ready for bed. A tube of depilatory cream was next to his toothbrush. He read the directions, opened it, and took a whiff.

The acrid smell was familiar, but not the one he was starting to think of as Sherlock's own. And why  _that_  made him happy, heaven only knew. He recapped the tube, set it on the back of the toilet, and washed his face, stubble and all.

It wasn't until he made up the couch that he realized Sherlock had taken the wrong pillow. The man must have been dead on his feet—or perhaps this was one of the social niceties he'd deleted in favor of something deemed more useful.

Either way, John headed upstairs to make an exchange.

Sherlock was already fast asleep, utterly still, except for his deep even breathing. His long arms were wrapped around John's pillow and his face was half-buried in it, making it impossible to remove one from the other. The features that were still visible had softened into something peaceful, perhaps for the first time since John had met him.

He looked like a contented child, worn out from a day of hard play. John put out a hand to brush back a dark curl that threatened to cover the closed eye, but thought better of it just in time.

Instead, he pulled the blanket up to Sherlock's neck and went to the couch to stare at the ceiling and think confused thoughts until sleep finally engulfed him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big disclaimer on this one: the people who work for the Missing Persons Bureau in the UK go above and beyond to provide a vital service and treat both the missing and their families with the *utmost* respect. In short, they don't hire inefficient idiots. So I hired one for them.


	8. Chapter 8

John woke the next morning with a crick in his neck, an aching lower back, and a new appreciation for army cots. He sat up with a groan, letting the blanket fall into his lap. He dimly registered that it was the one from his bed.

"Good morning," said Jane, looking up from his laptop. "Come look at this cover art."

He blinked at her. "Brush my teeth first," he mumbled, getting to his feet and barking his shin on the coffee table before stumbling to the stairs.

After the necessaries were accomplished, he went to his room for fresh clothes. Sherlock wasn't there, but the bed was made—less one blanket—and the pillowcase was as smooth as if it hadn't been used at all.

John put his hand flat against the cool surface for a moment, then went back down to the bathroom, where he stood under the spray of the shower until he felt slightly more awake.

He pulled on his favorite jumper as he came down the stairs, wincing as his back protested.

"Rough night?" asked Jane.

"I stared at your bullet hole until well past midnight. That couch must have come from the Marquis de Sade's jumble sale. Sherlock out?"

"He said he had an errand before meeting Robert Cross. I made you some coffee." She pointed to his red mug. "And brought you a chair."

He sat and drank a third of the mug in one go—it was just as he liked it, which was no great surprise. "Okay," he said, setting it down. "What did you want me to see?"

"Clara e-mailed you some cover mock-ups already." She brought them up, side by side.

"How did you access my . . . never mind." He looked at the images and felt an undeniable surge of pride at seeing his name on each.

"These are really good," said Jane. "She must have worked all night, just on this logo."

"She'd said she'd been doodling ideas for a while, just in case I asked."

"If this is doodling, I can't wait to see her artwork." She tapped the second one. "I like this one, but it's your call. No,  _look_  at them, John. This is your decision, not mine. Choose a style you can see using over and over. When you do your next one—"

" _If_  I do a next—"

" _When_  you do your next one, you'll want it to be similar. Most of your readers are going to come from your site, at least at first, but you need to attract the browsing shoppers, too. Most people  _do_ judge a book by its cover."

He liked the simplicity of the third one, and said so.

"You're sure? Okay. So now you register with a site like this one—I found out you can offer up to three electronic formats here, which means less hassle for your readers , but there's this other one that offers rankings by reader recommendations . . ." They leaned shoulder to shoulder to peer at the screen.

By late morning, "The Case of the Speckled Bracelet" by one John Watson, was available for purchase.

"Now what?" he asked, handing her a glass of water and slipping back into his seat with more coffee for himself.

She stretched. "Now you blog about it – tell them that the case study you mentioned in your post last month—you can link to it or rehash—is available at BiblioPhibian, and link  _that._  And then you ignore it until the end of the day or else you'll drive yourself crazy checking every five minutes."

"All right." He accessed his blog and logged in. "You seem to know a lot about this."

"That's because I . . . ugh." She closed her eyes. "I'm in publishing, I'm an agent—no, I'm not asking for fifteen percent—I'm in promotions, I design websites , I'm a good researcher . . ." She shrugged and rubbed her eyes. "Hell if I know. Maybe I never will."

"You will, in time," he said. On impulse, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Because you're brilliant. Brave and brilliant and marvelous." He started to type.

Jane was silent for a while. "John."

"Mmmm?" He erased the last sentence—far too apologetic and  _if you wouldn't mind_. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right.

"I'm not the female version of Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm aware of that." He smiled at the screen, fingers still moving. "If you were, we'd be charging at least a hundred quid a copy." When had he posted that case? A month ago? Two months? He found it and linked it in.

She touched his arm. "I don't want you to get us . . . mixed up."

"Impossible," he said, scanning the post for errors. "But if you're worried, you might stop using his shampoo. Might give me ideas." He published the post . . .

. . . and belatedly realized what she'd said. And what he'd just said.

"Damn—I . . . _Damn._ " He swung out of his chair and started to pace, scrubbing at his hair with both hands.

"John—"

He turned on her. "Why are you  _doing_  this?'

"Doing what?" She seemed honestly confused, but he knew better.

"You're—you're  _manipulating_  me into being . . . aware of him."

"You were always aware of him, John."

He shook his head. "Not like this."

" _Always_. All I did, if anything, was help you become aware that you're aware." She tilted her head. "You know, the Holmes brothers have you pegged. You're a smart, strong, principled,  _decent_  man. But you aren't very observant."

"I don't  _want_  to be observant. Things were fine the way they were and now . . . "

"For you, maybe."

"For both of us. It's the way he— _we_ want it, all right? We're  _fine_."

She shook her head. "For someone who's fine, Sherlock spends an awful lot of time and energy building those walls of his."

"What walls?"

"You really don't see them, do you," she said, in an unreadable voice. "The walls he's going to need when you leave him."

"I told you before, I have no intention of leaving."

"Good intentions," she said, in a sharp voice. "What do they say about those?"

He gritted his teeth. "I'm not leaving him!"

"Ever?"

"No!"

"Good!" She spread her hands. "Why not?"

He stared at her. "He's my  _friend_."

"Your friend?" she asked. "That's it? The person you killed a man for, within, what, two or three days of being introduced? Would you do the same for anyone you just met, outside of Afghanistan?"

"How did you—"

"I  _read_  your  _blog."_ Her golden eyes flashed with irritation. "It's all there, for anyone with half a brain. The one place your narrative breaks down: you can't tell me any detective of his caliber wouldn't have tracked down the person who shot that murderous cabbie of his. He'd want to know who else had figured it out—or it could have been the evil sponsor. But of course, he knew it wasn't. And he covered it up—for  _you_."

"Friends  _do_ that, Jane. That's exactly what friends  _do._ "

"All right. Say they do, even when they've barely met. But you also put up with his attention-seeking crap and his obsessions, you take care of him because he can't or won't, you know exactly who and what he is, limitations and all, and you're  _still here_. He reigns himself in—yes, he does, believe me—solely because you ask him to, he even seems to  _think_  better when you're around to center him, and he seeks out your company even when he's irritated at the rest of humanity. He allowed himself to like you, John, and he likes who he is when he's with you."

"He likes you, too."

"I'm a temporary novelty." She sighed and rubbed her temples. "Look, I'm sorry if I pushed you into something you aren't ready to face. But, honestly, the only time I've seen you truly alive is when you're with him and the only time he bothers to smile and mean it is when you're there. You function apart, but when you meet up, it's like watching a circuit connect, or two magnets align. If that's friendship, John, then most of the world is doing it wrong."

Her words rang true, every single one.

When he could speak, he said. "But that doesn't mean we're, I don't know, destined soul mates or anything. Maybe we're . . ." He tried to say  _brothers_ , but couldn't.  _Comrades-in-arms_  was closer, but—

"You have a  _bond_ , John—instant and total. Call it whatever you want—do you know how  _rare_  that is?"

"Yes. I think I do," he said, seriously. "Which is why I don't want to try to make it into something it isn't."

"You won't," she said. "You can't. But it would be such a  _waste_  not to—"

"Nothing's being  _wasted_." He started to pace again. "You two really are alike! Sherlock has his decompositions and you have your social experiments. You want me to change everything, risk _everything_  just so you can watch what happens _—"_

"No!" she shouted, then clutched her head as if it hurt.

He stopped, indignation momentarily forgotten. "Jane? Another headache?"

"Just—just a little dizzy. I forgot breakfast." She took a few deep breaths and lifted her head. "I don't want you to change, John. I just want you to accept the  _possibilities_. What you do with them is up to you. You and Sherlock."

"But what you're suggesting  _isn't_  possible. I prefer  _women_ , I always have. And he's made it abundantly clear that he prefers his work, and always will."

"Oh sure," she muttered. " _That's_ the wall you see."

"What?"

She blew out a breath. "Right," she said. "It might help if you lose the labels and stop thinking in generalities. Talk to your sister."

"My  _sister_?"

"Go see her. Today. Not at a pub—both of you should be sober for this."

"How did . . . oh, God, never mind. Fine. I'll talk to Harry."

"Today."

"Why?"

Jane looked uncomfortable. "Because I only  _know_ , but she'll  _understand._ "

"All right. I'll see if I can meet her after—"

"Now." She held out his phone.

"Fine." He took it. "I'll see if I can talk to her now. What am I going to  _say_?"

Jane rolled her eyes and gave him the sort of look that Anderson might have recognized. "Can I use your laptop while you're gone?"

He sighed. "Only if you get some breakfast."

"Okay." She turned to the laptop. "After I—"

"Now."

She echoed his sigh. "Yes, doctor."

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

"This is a pleasant surprise," said Harry, as the waitress brought their tea and sandwiches. "Not to mention a bit odd."

"It's odd to want to have lunch with my sister?"

"You've never wanted to before."

"That's not true. I've just never asked you before."

"Fair enough. And since you'll be making heaps of money from your writing, you can pay."

"It may flop."

"Never. Clara's artwork will see to that, even if they think you and your detective are complete rubbish." She grinned. "How is Sherlock? Over that virus, yet?"

"Finally, yes. Worst patient in the world—and I include you in that." He paused. "Sarah's doing well, too."

"Sarah . . . The doctor from your clinic? You're still seeing her, then. That's nice." She picked up her cup. "How are she and Sherlock getting along?"

"They don't often see each other."

"Ah."

"Why?"

"Because anyone who takes on one of you had best be prepared to take the other as well—though not quite in the same way, one hopes. Then again, the possibilities would be . . . " She looked up and lost her teasing smile. "John? What did I say?"

"Is that how you see us? As a . . . a package?"

"John, are you and Sherlock having problems? Because if you are, you need to work them out." Her expression was serious. "You do know he saved your life, right? I honestly didn't think you'd survive the year after you came home. You were so . . . distant. Untouchable. But he brought you back—you're yourself now, maybe better. Happier. And without you, he'd be in dire straits."

"How do you know?"

She rolled her eyes. "Please—genius or not, the man needs a keeper. And you, dear brother, need someone to keep."

He felt himself flush.

"Oh. Oh, dear. Is that it?"

"Is what  _it_?"

" _It_ ," she said, waving a hand. "The reason you called your lesbian sister, and invited her to lunch. Did Sherlock try something?"

"Try—no!"

"Then you did. No. You want to."

"Harry . . ."

"You  _do,_  don't you?"

"I don't  _know_ ," he said, far too loudly. He glanced around, his face reheating, and lowered his voice. "I'm—I'm confused."

"I'm not surprised," she said, gently.

"You're not surprised that I'm confused or you're not surprised I'm, ah—"

"Attracted to your dead sexy best mate? Total lack of shock on both counts."

"I don't understand . . . I've never . . . "He looked away in exasperation. "I don't know what to  _do_ , Harry."

"Didn't Dad give you the big speech when you were twelve?"

"Harry,  _please_."

"Sorry. . . No, I really am. Of course you're confused, John. You're the furthest thing from a homophobe, but you've identified yourself one way your entire life, and now your label's fallen off." She reached over and took his hands. "It's okay to be worried."

He squeezed her fingers. "Thanks." Jane had been right—he was still uncertain, but Harry's matter-of-fact manner was helping.

"What is family for?" she said. "Besides driving you to distraction?"

Their food arrived, and they separated. He waited until the waitress left and then said, "I just don't  _feel_ gay. Or bi, I suppose, or whatever is going on."

"Maybe you aren't," she said, popping a crisp into her mouth. "Maybe it's just him."

He blinked. "Does it work like that?"

"It works however it works, John." She ate another crisp. "Look. Do you know why Clara and I split up?"

He picked up his sandwich. "Drink?"

"Drinking is only a symptom, even if it is my favorite one. You know that, Doctor Watson." She sighed. "I had an affair. With a man. And it confused the hell out of me."

"I should think so."

"But see, the affair had nothing to do with gender. It was . . . Clara had just started freelancing and money was tight, and then that merger at the bank had me terrified we'd lose everything. What with her deadlines, the kids to take care of, and me working so hard to keep my position, we hardly saw each other for days on end, and when we did, we were both too tired and stressed to be more than civil.

"I needed someone to lean on, and she wasn't available—that isn't fair, and I know I'm the bad guy here, but . . . he made me feel appreciated. He wanted listen to my troubles and talk about things and hold my hand . . . it felt good."

"Nonjudgmental human contact," he said.

She blinked. "Yeah, that's right—though there was affection, too. He was a nice man and I was very attracted to him."

"So you actually . . . "

"Yes, John. The affair was consummated." She lifted the top slice from her sandwich, examined the filling, and reached for the salt. "You'll forgive me if I don't go into the details."

"I'll never forgive you if you do."

She chuckled, then shook her head. "Sex is easy. It's the other stuff that's so bloody difficult."

"But you didn't stay with him."

"No. He was great, really great. And it might have worked. But he isn't the love of my life. Clara is. And the thing is—the  _important_  thing—is she would be the one even if she didn't sport a gorgeous pair of—"

John choked. "Harry!"

She grinned. "X-chromosomes, I was going to say. But I've had to work damned hard to make sure she believes that—it was hard enough getting her to give me a second chance." Her face took on a familiar stubborn look. "I haven't had a drink in ages. And I'm not going to. For her. No—for us."

"That's great. I'm proud of you."

"But?"

"But you didn't have to . . . to change course. You went back to your normal. It's different for me."

"It's different for everyone. You and Sherlock are extraordinary people—why should your relationship be common?" She bit into her sandwich and chewed for a moment. "I take it Sherlock doesn't know about your newfound interest?"

"I don't think so. Then again, he may have deleted it."

"Mmmm, right, that thing with the solar system." She frowned. "I don't think he would delete you, John. Maybe it's because I can't see anyone refusing my favorite brother—"

"Only brother."

"Don't fish—you know you'd be my favorite anyway. But I don't know. There's something about the way he looks at you that tells me you aren't the only one interested. I'd take a chance . . . But then, I would, wouldn't I?"

"I don't know if I should risk it, Harry. What if this is just a passing thing? What if I ruin the best thing in my life because I mistook it for something else? And then there's Sarah," he added, feeling guilty that she was only an afterthought. "She doesn't deserve any of this."

Harry used her napkin and took a sip of tea. "If there's one thing I know, John, it's that you can't let other people decide these things for you. Not even me. You have to ask yourself what you really, truly want and what you're willing to risk to get it. But take your time—you aren't on any kind of a schedule." She glanced at her watch. "Oh, but I am! I'd better go."

She stood, grabbed her bag, and leaned over to buss him on the forehead. "Thanks for lunch. Ring if you need me. I mean that."

"I will. Thanks, Harry."

"Any time." She looked at him with eyes very like their mother's and squeezed his shoulder. "Be happy, John. You deserve it." And she was gone, like the whirlwind she was.

John paid the bill and decided to walk home. He had a lot of thinking to do.

He made it to the end of the block before his phone signaled a text.

_King talked. COME HOME. 3rd or 4th cab. Send ID. DO NOT WALK. —S_

John stuffed his phone back into his pocket and started hailing cabs.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's where things veer off. When I wrote this, I had my own theory about what might have happened after the cliffhanger of the first season. 
> 
> I was wrong. . . but I'm letting it stand.

When John reached the flat, Sherlock was looking out the right-hand window and Jane was lying on the couch, a damp washcloth over her eyes and her ever-present cardigan spread over her like a knitted security blanket.

"Did you see anything suspicious?" said Sherlock, without turning. "Or anyone?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary. What's wrong? Jane? Are you all right?"

"She has a headache," said Sherlock, throwing himself into his chair.

"Memory related?"

"She won't say."

"I  _did_  say.  I said I stared at a laptop screen all morning and skipped my morning coffee."

John raised doubtful eyebrows at Sherlock, who raised his in mocking answer. "Don't force it."

"Have you taken anything for the pain?" asked John, ignoring him. "Any vision problems? Did you eat lunch?"

"I gave her a sandwich and two paracetamol half an hour ago, and her pupils are normal," said Sherlock. "Are you at all interested in why I called you home?"

John decided that confused he might be, but doormat he was not. "Jane?"

"I'm fine, John," she said, a small smile on the visible half of her face. "Except you weren't kidding about this couch—I didn't think concrete could  _sag."_

"It needs to be experienced to be believed. And now that you mention it, Sherlock, I believe I would like to know what Thomas King said that had me playing musical cabbies. I take it Lestrade called?"

"No, but he did arrange for me to pay a visit to Mr. King this morning. I wanted to know how a man who acted out of desperate panic at every turn had the foresight to gather dog hair to plant in the car he nicked in anticipation of murdering Jane in the street. The street down which he  _somehow_  knew we would be walking."

John hadn't thought of that. "All right," he said, sitting his in own chair. "How?"

"He claims someone—he couldn't tell the gender from the voice—called him the morning Janet Cross and Jane were found, informed him his witness survived, and supplied detailed instructions on how and when to steal the car. He received a second call in the evening and was told where to wait."

"He did all that on the advice of a complete stranger?" asked Jane.

"I did say  _desperate_ ," said Sherlock, drily. "Though the dog hair was apparently all his own idea."

"So someone else is after Jane?"

Sherlock grunted. "There's more. In return, the voice asked King to be so kind as to warn Sherlock Holmes— should I survive—to be  _more careful when the game's afoot_." He grimaced. "Terrible pun."

"Henry the fourth?" John frowned. "Or fifth?"

"Good, John! Either, I suppose, but fifth seems more likely:  _Once more unto the breach, dear friends._  It's a communiqué, John. From our old adversary."

John froze. "Revenge for the pool? That was six months ago." They'd heard nothing in all that time from any source Sherlock could find.

"I believe he's giving us notice that he hasn't forgotten."

"Who?" said Jane.

"Moriarty," said Sherlock, encasing the word in ice.

"Who's Moriarty?"

"His evil twin."

Sherlock shot John a look. "My counterpart in the criminal world."

Jane sat up and peeled off the washcloth. "The cabbie's sponsor?"

"And the consultant and mastermind behind myriad ingenious crimes," said Sherlock.

"Are we safe here?" asked Jane.

He and John looked at each other. "Nothing's exploded," said John.

"Yet."

John knew they were both remembering the laser sights dancing over their hearts in the dim light, the exchanged glance of perfect understanding, Sherlock turning his back on the sniper and raising the Browning, equally ready to kill Moriarty or blow them all to Kingdom Come, and John readying himself to tackle Sherlock into the relative safety of the water the moment he took his shot . . .

_. . . And the shock—the utter, incomprehensible_ shock _—as a red dot had bloomed in the centre of Moriarty's forehead a split second before the bullet slammed him off his feet and into hell, the insouciant smile still on his face. And then, in the echoing silence, the sound of unhurried footsteps from the observers' balcony and a door creaking open and slamming shut._

_John rose to his feet, leaning again the edge of the partition in case his knees went again, and they stared at each other in wild disbelief, trying to remember how to breathe._

_Sherlock looked away first, lowering the gun and moving towards the body, stepping over the discarded explosives. John followed._

_"It's so difficult to find loyal henchmen these days," Sherlock said, gazing down at the dead man._

_"I'm not surprised he did it. Most people would think twice about being blown to bits for someone else."_

_"You didn't."_

_"I'm not a henchman."_

_"Neither was the sniper."_

_Before John could ask, Sherlock's phone chirped. He glanced at the text and showed it to John._

You've made me sacrifice a valuable pawn. Guard your own. —M

_"The sniper?" John shook his head. "No."_

_"Yes." Sherlock's eyes rested on the imitation Moriarty. "I knew it the moment he returned—he was uncertain, did you see it? He tried to justify his erratic behavior, because, of course, he hadn't been told anything. The one false note in his performance . . ."_

_"I'm no one's bloody_ pawn _," John said, the only thing he could think to say—the only thing he knew for sure._

_"I know," Sherlock replied, in an odd voice. "You're a knight. Unpredictable, flexible, and capable of moving behind enemy lines to capture important pieces." He fixed John with gleaming eyes. "Even if you do let them go far too easily."_

_John grasped the criticism like a lifeline. "Oh, sorry. Next time, I'll keep hold and allow you to be shot."_

_"No need to go quite that far, doctor," Sherlock had said, with one of his grins. "Don't forget:_ First Do No Harm _."_

_John had felt a grin spread over his own face. "What, you mean the Hypocritic Oath?"_

_And they'd shared the helpless laughter that comes from adrenaline overload and survival . . ._

But John didn't feel like laughing now.

"Exploded," said Jane, looking from one to the other. "I'm going to need some details. This Moriarty is angry with you because . . ."

"Sherlock solved his riddles, ruined his fun, rejected his advances—"

"They weren't  _his_ ," said Sherlock, sharply.

"—and threatened to bring a building down on his stand-in."

"Whom he killed, rather than allow me the pleasure. Of course, he would have died, too."

"Stand-in," said Jane. "You mean, like a stunt double?"

John nodded. "Moriarty's public face."

"He didn't fool me for long," said Sherlock. "That ruddy, dancing peacock. No one with Moriarty's abilities and brains would ever be so theatrical and capricious."

Jane raised an eyebrow at John, who suppressed a smile and shook his head slightly. "I wrote it up, if you want to read it." He wouldn't be posting that one, not until Moriarty was gone—not just caught, but confirmed dead; he had Harry and Clara and the kids to think about.

She nodded. "Let's see if I can focus on the screen."

"I'll bring it to you. Are we in immediate danger, do you think?" he asked Sherlock, as he brought up the document and carried the laptop to Jane.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. He does so love his games."

"Will he go after King?" John didn't care much if he was, but the police should probably be warned.

"Doubtful," said Sherlock. "King did what he was supposed to do."

"But he didn't kill you or Jane—and he got himself arrested."

"Precisely. And passed on the message."

"Did you see Robert Cross?"

"I rescheduled for this afternoon."

They sat in silence, then, Sherlock studying the ceiling, and John studying Sherlock.

He looked . . . different from the last encounter with his nemesis—Mycroft having been demoted after that first relayed phone call. He was grim instead of excited, quiet instead of energized.

John didn't know how to fix it, or if it needed to be fixed. Perhaps it would be better if Sherlock did take things more seriously this time. But he did know better than to speak unless spoken to.

"Have I grown that second nose _now_ , John?" said Sherlock in a sour voice, his glare not leaving the ceiling.

"Sorry. Tea?"

"Nicotine. But don't bother—I wouldn't want to offend your sensibilities," he said, slinging himself out of the chair. He snatched the Persian slipper from the mantel, dug into it, and slapped it down again.

"Do you think I'm part of it?" asked Jane, setting the laptop aside. Her expression was calm, but her hands twisted the washcloth so water dripped onto her cardigan. "Do you think I could work for him? Moriarty? Could I be a plant? Another stand-in?"

John opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. He knew her amnesia was real . . . but that's all he knew. And it made a sort of twisted sense.

"The idea had occurred to me," said Sherlock, rolling up his sleeve to expose a pale forearm. "But I've dismissed it. Thomas King made a full confession—he met Janet Cross by chance in front of the station, got her inside, and asked her to keep their . . . business transaction . . . a secret." He applied the first patch. "When she informed him that she always told her husband everything, he tried to threaten her. He chased her down the steps and did the deed."

He applied another patch. "According to his version of events, he heard someone coming and hid. A woman—that would be you—came in. You checked Mrs. Cross, found her dead, then noticed his briefcase, which he'd forgotten in his rush."

"Gray," she said, looking at him. "With a black handle and simple sliding locks on either side. I remember couldn't get the thing open at first because my hands were shaking . . . I really wanted to look inside. I was afraid. Really, really afraid. . ."

"Prophetic," said Sherlock, gently enough. "While you were rifling through it, he came up behind you and bashed you with a piece of wood."

"You're lucky it wasn't a pipe," said John.

"She's lucky he didn't hang about to make sure she was dead," said Sherlock, peeling the plastic from another patch.

"Funny," said Jane. "I don't feel lucky."

"You are," said Sherlock. "It was all far too random to have been instigated by Moriarty—he could only interfere  _after_  the stage had been set. You were an opportunity, nothing more. A way to let us know he's watching us."

"Sherlock," said John.

"What?"

"Three is enough."

Sherlock looked down at the fourth patch, stuck it back on its plastic and tossed it into the slipper. "I doubt, though, that Moriarty will make his move this week, or even the next. But I believe it would be best if your situation was resolved quickly."

"So I could have walked home after all," said John, trying to lighten the mood. "Instead of ruining any chance I have of hailing a cab in that part of the city."

"I erred on the side of caution, John," snapped Sherlock. "I'm sorry if that inconvenienced you."

"He was worried," said Jane, before John could respond in kind.

"I was  _concerned_. Moriarty and his puppet assumed once before that they could get to me through you. Couldn't have your demise on my so-called conscious." A corner of his mouth curled. "And what  _would_ I do without my blogger? Or perhaps I should say  _Boswell_ , since you've joined the ranks of the self-published. I suppose you were out with Sarah, having a celebratory shag?"

"No," said John, holding onto his temper by reminding himself how stroppy Sherlock could get right before the nicotiine hit his system. "But Harry sends her best."

Sherlock blinked at this. "You had lunch with your sister."

"Yes. It was quite pleasant. And informative," he added, glancing at Jane. "She's stopped drinking, she says. For Clara and the children. Seems determined this time."

"Ah. Good. I, um—that's . . . Good." Sherlock took a step towards his chair, changed his mind, and headed for the couch. He sat and pulled John's laptop to him, hitting a key or two, but not as if he meant it.

"I think I'm going to lie down," said Jane, standing. She looked down. "And change my clothes."

"All right," said John. "I'll check on you in an hour. Should I bring you something to eat?"

"I'll let you know," she said and headed for Sherlock's bedroom.

"John?" said Sherlock, still looking at the screen. "I'm, ah, sorry about the . . . I shouldn't have said— "

"'No, you shouldn't have. But don't worry, we won't be seeing each other much from now on, anyway. Sarah and me, I mean," he added, as Sherlock head came up, eyes wide.

"Really," said Sherlock. "That's . . . " He cleared his throat and looked back at the screen, his fingers moving along the keys. "I'm sorry, John. I know you had, ah, hopes. Did she . . . was it something I might have—"

"We want different things, that's all. It happens." Or it would once he talked to her. It wouldn't be an easy conversation, but it was the right thing to do.

Whatever else he might be, or become, he wasn't free or heartwhole. And he didn't know if he ever would be.

"Mmmm. John?"

"Yes?" He wondered if Sherlock would ask him what things he wanted . . . and what his reply might be.

But Sherlock only got up and offered the laptop. "Tell me what you think of this. It's a draft of Jane's report to Mycroft."

"Oh. Okay."

"I have that meeting with Robert Cross." Sherlock paused. "You might stay in, you and Jane, until I get back. Just in case. Here." He handed John the Browning.

"Right." John took the gun, placed it within easy reach, and began reading.

His phone interrupted five minutes later—Sherlock's cab details—but he barely took the time to send back an acknowledgment before going back to the report.

It was an account of the afternoon Jane had spent with Sherlock, starting with his assumption that she would be glad to assist him with his finger experiment. It covered everything from the discovery that she couldn't shoot a wall from half a room away, to the realization that there was, or had been, someone out there for whom she cared more than perhaps she should.

She'd included dialogue and details that made John feel as though he'd been there, the rattle of the cups, the smell, Sherlock's mannerisms and turns of phrase, even the warmth of John's hand when he'd tried to comfort her. And woven throughout, her own questions—fascinated and fearful—about the person she might have been before her identity had been lost.

It was extraordinary.

And maddeningly familiar.

John saved the document in two places—including his private file—put the laptop on the small table, and went on a thoughtful search of the living room bookshelves before going up to his bedroom and searching his own.

Ten minutes later, he brought three books to the kitchen, put the kettle on, and retrieved his laptop and the Browning. He opened the report and the first book, which was immediately shoved to one side.

The next one quickly joined it, but the third . . . he checked a few random paragraphs, then went online for independent confirmation.

Google was less than helpful, but BiblioPhibian yielded the information he needed.

He whistled under his breath. No wonder.

No  _wonder_.

He reached for his phone and sent Sherlock a short text.

Then he poured a cup of tea, picked up the third book, and started reading from the beginning.

 


	10. Chapter 10

John's phone bleeped, startling him.

He closed the book and stretched, then checked the text. Sherlock was taking another cab, though he didn't bother to say  _where_  he was going—or comment on the text John had sent him over an hour ago.

Sherlock had been in a strange mood today, even for him. He'd never really accepted John's relationship with Sarah, except in the most grudging way, but he'd never been crude about it before—not even under the influence of nicotine.  He'd seemed sorry afterwards, but that didn't explain the unexpected attack.

John had been chalking up their mutual dislike as typical Best Mate-Girlfriend conflict made worse by Sherlock's dismissal of the whole concept of romantic entanglements. But that remark . . . Had it been something more?

Did he want it to be?

John sighed, and got up to get himself a glass of water.

Maybe he did.

Of course he bloody well did.

 _Some_  indication that he either was or wasn't alone in his . . . interest . . . would be helpful. Jane—it was difficult not to think of her as Jane—had told him he was as important to Sherlock as Sherlock was to him, but she'd never gone so far as to describe the exact  _nature_  of Sherlock's need. And he couldn't believe she didn't know—she knew everything else.

He inspected the glass for odd residue, washed it on the off-chance, rinsed it in hot water, and filled it with cold.

Harry thought he had a chance—or at least that it was worth taking one. But she'd advised him to be  _sure_  first . . . and he still didn't know what he wanted. No, no, he did: his priority was to remain with Sherlock and the only risk he couldn't take was losing what he had—what  _they_ had. Anything else was extra.

There was nothing for it—he'd have to keep his head down and wait it out, one way or another. Unrequited feelings would be difficult, but they would be ten times more difficult if Sherlock deduced them. Supposing he hadn't already and was ignoring the whole thing. But Sherlock wasn't  _good_  with feelings, so maybe John's secret was safe.

John drained the glass and banged it down on the counter. This was like being back at school.

Though Harry had been right about one thing—there was no schedule. He had time. Although he hoped—

The flat door slammed shut and he seized the glass to refill it, shutting off the tap and turning as Sherlock strode through the doorway.

"That was a waste of an afternoon," he growled. His color was high, no doubt from the wind that had tousled his too-long hair into a style Lord Byron might have been pleased to wear, a comparison made easier by the scarf still slung around his neck, the one that matched his eyes.

John took a casual swallow of water, forever grateful it went down the right way. "I suppose Thomas King's half-brother isn't really significant," he said, hoping his face wasn't as flushed as it felt, "now that King's confessed."

Sherlock yanked off the scarf and tossed onto the table. "Not why I went. But there was nothing in Cross' files to indicate a connection between the half _-_ brother and Moriarty—no criminal records, nothing worth the effort of blackmail. I faxed the information over to Lestrade for whatever comfort it gives him." He pulled out a chair and slumped into it. "Is there tea?"

"There can be." John switched on the kettle, glad to be busy. "Is this mug safe?"

"Yes. So Jane Doe is Emma Rheardon." Sherlock picked up the book and examined it. "You're sure?"

"Sure as I can be." John took down his own mug as well, dropped a tea bag into each and took out the milk. "She has a distinctive style and uses some of the same descriptions in her report as in her book."

Sherlock grunted. "No flap photo, few biographical details, though it appears she was born in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Are there any images online?"

"Not that I could find—she's a bit of a recluse, apparently. But it makes sense. She knew a lot about publishing and editing, and she'd need to know about forensic science and psychology to write her kind of mysteries."

"How well known is she?"

"She's not Elizabeth George or Dorothy Sayers, but she could be someday—an Army mate of mine got a couple of her paperbacks in a care package and he let me read them. They're brilliant. You should try that one—I'd like to see if you can figure out whodunit."

Sherlock leafed through a few pages. "I don't read popular fiction."

John distributed the hot water and added a dollop of milk to Sherlock's mug before sugaring his own. "Except Shakespeare."

"Yes, well, once Ms. Rheardon's efforts enter the cultural lexicon, I'll give them a once over." He set the book down and accepted the mug. "I suppose we should tell Lestrade—he can corroborate."

John sat down. "We should probably tell her first."

"Mmmm. Has it occurred to you that she may not want to know?"

"It has, actually. It seems strange that she didn't recognize her own website. And she developed that headache after she wrote her report, though she might be more upset over the man she remembers—she's afraid of losing him, I think. Or maybe afraid she's already lost him."

He half expected a sarcastic remark, but Sherlock only nodded. "No one has reported her missing." He lifted his mug. "I wonder if he gave up," he said to it.

"Gave up? On what?"

Sherlock moved his shoulders in a shrug and John was reminded of cats and hot stove lids. "On her."

John tried for casual. "There are those of us who find you geniuses pretty good company, you know."

"You're in the distinct minority. And it never lasts."

"Are we still talking about Jane?"

"Obviously." But Sherlock's gaze slid away.

"Are you sure? Because if we aren't, I'll remind you that you're an arrogant, demanding sod who microwaves eyeballs for fun, puts himself into the line of fire every other week, and has managed to get me arrested  _twice_ —and I'm still here, enjoying almost every minute of it."

There was a hint, the merest hint, of a smile playing at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "Almost?"

"I don't like paying court fines, not on my salary."

"I paid half."

"You  _should_  have paid all of it—you  _should_  have talked that street artist kid into confessing."

"If I start betraying my informants, I soon won't have any at all."

"Oh, so I rank that far behind your irregulars, do I? Should have known." That last came out a bit more sharply than he'd intended. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"John," said Sherlock, with an unreadable expression. "Do you really think you aren't—?"

"What time is it?" said a tired voice from the doorway. "Did you forget about me?"

"Sorry," said John, getting up. "I was reading. Do you want anything?"

"Coffee? I still feel groggy." She sat down and picked up one of John's discarded books. "You were reading this?"

"No," said Sherlock. "This one." He handed it to her.

She looked at the cover. "Oh," she said. She opened it, read the flyleaf, and shut it again. "I don't think I've read any of hers. Is she any good?"

Coffee jar in hand, John glanced at Sherlock, who was studying her with bright eyes. "I've read better," he said, sounding bored.

She frowned, but didn't reply.

John reached down a mug. "Is this one okay, Emma?"

She nodded. "Anything from that shelf is okay—don't use the ones under the sink. You didn't like the book?" she asked Sherlock, rubbing her temple.

He shrugged. "John and I were trying to figure out the killer."

"The gardener," she said.

"No, I don't think so, Emma. You must be wrong."

"No, I'm not.  His daughter died because Mrs. Cabot wanted her son to marry someone else—she didn't send for the doctor in time after her accident. So he planted bittersweet nightshade in the mint patch, knowing she didn't know a thing about plants. The clue is in chapter seven, when he's planting "mint" with five pointed blue flowers."

John added an extra spoonful of sugar to her coffee, then another for good measure. She was going to need it.

She flipped open the book and paged through. "There, see? And then, later, the detective's wife tells her husband that mint has a square stem. I almost cut the line because of infodump, but the character's the kind of person who notices things like that, and my editor thought it was—" She stopped and swallowed. "Oh." She pulled her cardigan close around her. "Oh."

"Are you all right, Emma?" said John, setting her mug close.

She took it with shaking hands. "I don't know. I . . . I remember writing that book. I remember researching poisonous plants at the library and the local policeman dropping by to check that I wasn't planning to use them on anyone. I call him now, whenever I have a question about procedure . . . I don't . . . I don't remember the murder," she said. "But I remember being Emma Rheardon."

"What about the man with the blue mug?" asked John.

She stared at him and shook her head, slowly. "No," she said. "No, I don't want to."

"All right," said John, resting his hand on her shoulder. "All right. But we do need to tell Lestrade who you are."

"Go ahead," she said. "I don't mind."

"Do you remember anything else?" asked Sherlock.

"I emigrated from the States six years ago," she said. "After Dad died. I wanted a fresh start and my mother was English. I like it here."

"You live in London?" asked John.

"No, the city is too busy for me . . . um, Derbyshire?"

Sherlock eyes widened. "Are you certain?"

"No. But I lived there when I wrote this book." She frowned. "Have you really read better?"

" _I_ haven't, not many," said John, wondering why Derbyshire was so important. "I've read three or four of your books. They're brilliant."

"Thank you, John," she said, smiling. She raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "I suppose you won't read anything that doesn't boast the rich patina of centuries?"

"I might make an exception in your case, but I'm very busy."

"To paraphrase Mark Twain, the man who doesn't read has no advantage over the man who cannot read."

He stared down his nose at her. "I read all the time, Ms. Rheardon, but not for  _entertainment_."

"That's a lie," said John. "He giggles over autopsy reports."

"Only the once—and it was one of Anderson's."

Jane grinned. "Think of crime fiction as exercises in deduction—use your  _imagination_."

"I don't have to."

John's phone bleeped. "Yes?"

" _Doctor Watson? Sally Donovan._   _Thomas King's brother just arrived and I thought you and, ah, your detective might want to speak with him."_

"I'll ask." He covered the receiver. "King's half-brother is at the Yard. Do you want to talk to him?"

To his surprise, Sherlock looked almost eager. "I think so, yes. We can confirm Emma's identity at the same time."

Emma shrugged. "Might as well."

"We're on our way," said John. He hesitated. "With Emma Rheardon."

" _With . . . Oh!"_  said Sally. " _The writer?"_

"Yes. She's starting to remember—nothing about Janet Cross, yet, but it looks promising."

" _Great—the author of my favorite series thinks I'm a blithering idiot."_

"I'm sure you can change her mind if you try."

" _We'll see. Thank you, Doctor."_

"Thank  _you_." John ended the call and looked up to see Sherlock frowning at his own phone. "Something wrong?"

"There must be, or Lestrade would have rung me instead of you."

"Oh, that wasn't Lestrade." John grinned. "You aren't the only one with a spy network."

 

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

 

Lestrade stood up and came around his desk. "Ms. Rheardon," he said, shaking her hand. "It's nice to finally put a name with the face."

"Tell me about it," she said with a grin. "Is that mine?" she asked, pointing to the file in his desk.

"Yeah," he said, gesturing to the chair and returning to his. "Once we had your name, the rest was easy. Good thing you remembered—they might have taken months to go six years back."

"I didn't," she said, taking a seat and smiling at John. "Doctor Watson figured it out and Sherlock Holmes tricked me into seeing it for myself. Anything good in there? Any arrests or convictions?"

"No, sorry. Not even a parking ticket."

"I told you the smart ones never get caught," said Sherlock from the corner. A drawer rattled.

"That file cabinet's off limits," said Lestrade. "Do you remember anything else about the murder, or how you came to be there?"

"Not yet," she said. "I'm sorry."

"If you do, we'd appreciate a call."

"Of course. Would you prefer that I stay in town, or could I go home?"

"Either one, as long as we can find you. May I ask you a personal question, Ms. Rheardon?"

"You can ask."

Lestrade opened a desk drawer and brought out a hardcover book. "Would you mind autographing this? I'm a huge fan."

She laughed and took the book and the proffered pen. "On one condition, Detective Inspector."

"Name it."

"Could I have my address, please? I haven't dredged up the specifics, yet. Although I'm not so sure I want to go to a home I don't recall," she added, frowning as she signed the title page and handed back the book.

"You can stay with us as long as you like," said John. "Or Mrs. Hudson's been dying to rent out 221C."

"I don't think that will be necessary," murmured Sherlock, as Sally Donovan appeared at the door with an enormous, ginger-haired man looming behind. "Angus McRae is here, sir," she said, standing aside. "Thomas King's brother."

"Half-brother, if you don't mind," said the man, crossing the threshold and halving the available space.

John studied Angus McRae as he moved back to make room. Aside from his coloring and brogue, the man had little resemblance to King. He was good-looking in a wholesome way, and looked like he'd never had an allergy or illness in his life. He looked, in fact, as though he could pick up a train car in each hand without first unloading the passengers.

"I don't know how much help I can be, Detective Inspector," he was saying. "I haven't seen Thomas in years. This is the first—Emma!" He grinned. "Your hotel said you were out, but I never thought to find you here waiting. How on earth did you find out?"

"Find out what?" she said, staring up at him.

"Oh, right, you're here for research, aren't you? You remember me telling you about Thomas? He's really done it this time. He's murdered some poor woman and assaulted another—they say she doesn't remember a . . . Emma?" He dropped to one knee in front of her, putting their heads on the same level. "Are you there, love?" he asked, with a gentle smile.

She stared at him. "You have a blue mug."

"Yes, I do," he said comfortably. "You gave it to me for my birthday, remember?" He smiled at John and Lestrade. "When she gets a story in her head, it takes over, like. Where's your notebook, love?" She shook her head and he frowned. "Don't tell me you lost it. Do you need something to write on? Emma? You have to talk to me, love." He looked at Sherlock, who was hovering. "Is something wrong?"

"That remains to be seen. I'm Sherlock Holmes. This is John Watson."

"Ah," said Angus McRae. "She found you, then."

"Was she looking?"

"Yeah. She discovered your blog, Mr. Holmes, and yours, doctor—good stuff, by the way—and wanted to meet you both. You and she seem like two of a kind, Mr. Holmes, to be honest. But she really came to town—"

"To speak to Janet Cross," said Jane, in a distant voice.

"Right. The professional escort. For your next book—"

"No." She shook her head. "Because of the phone calls. He wasn't checking your background for a job, that was obvious from the questions. He was checking to see if you were a suitable client for Sophisticated Escorts. Except he wasn't investigating you—he was asking about Thomas King. But I thought—I'm not an easy person to live with, you know, and we had that fight about . . . and you'd been down to London every weekend for a month. . ."

For a moment, the only sound was Lestrade making notes.

"But I didn't think it  _could_ be true, not you—you'd tell me if you didn't want me anymore." Her voice shook on the last words. "You'd never lie to me. But I couldn't ask, because . . . because you might  _tell_ me . . . So I went to see her, to ask. We were meeting at the pub by the station. But then I saw a tall red-haired man shove her through the station doors and I followed and heard screams, and she was dead. I saw the briefcase and started to look through it . . . it couldn't be you, and it wasn't, but then everything hurt and I didn't  _remember_  . . . and then I didn't want to because I  _didn't know_." She stared at him, tears turning her eyes molten gold. "And now you'll know I thought those things and you won't . . . you won't think I'm worth the trouble."

Angus studied her for a moment. "You thought I was in London meeting another woman because of our fight a month ago," he said. "Is that it?"

She nodded. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm no good at . . . at things like this. You know that."

"That I do," he said.

John felt compelled to add, "Your half-brother didn't help."

Angus McRae grimaced. "He never does."

"But she remembered you," said Sherlock, an intent look on his face. "You were the first real memory she had—she couldn't remember your face, but she remembered that she cared for you."

Angus nodded, reached out, and held a large hand to Emma's face, his thumb brushing away a tear. "You honestly thought that I would risk the best thing that ever happened to me?"

"But you said I was more trouble than I was worth."

He sighed. "I said a lot of things I didn't mean. And some I did, to be honest," he added. "You can think  _and_  talk rings round me, you never tidy your messes, you stay up writing for days on end until you collapse, and you go around treating real people like they're characters—even the ones you like, which aren't many. You are trouble on two legs. But that's  _you_ , my love. And I'd never leave  _you._ Not for anything—much less some London tar— ah,  _escort._  All right?"

She sniffed once, twice, and launched herself at him. He caught her in his arms, stroked her shaking back, and whispered into her hair. Then he stopped, and his expression changed. "You said you couldn't remember. Are you the one Thomas hurt?" He looked at the others. "She was the one he hurt, wasn't she?"

"She was," said John.

He stood up, still holding Emma. "I'll break his bloody neck," he growled.

"The courts will take care of that for you," said Sherlock, calmly. "Won't they, Lestrade?"

"I should think so," said the DI. "I assume you won't need that address, Ms. Rheardon?"

"No," she said, detaching herself from Angus McRae's front. "I know where home is now."

"We'll walk you out," said Sherlock. "If we're done here, Lestrade?"

"As far as I'm concerned," he said, standing. "A pleasure, Ms. Rheardon."

"Thank you, Inspector," she said. "May I have a copy of my file? I know it's an imposition, but I'd love to have it for future reference."

Lestrade looked through it and shrugged. "I don't see why not. Sergeant?"

"Already done, sir," said Sally, offering a folder. "I apologize for my previous behavior, Ms. Rheardon. It  _won't_  happen again."

Emma took the file and looked at Sally. "Apology accepted, Sergeant Donovan," she said, smiling. "I shall follow your career with interest."

A little later, they walked out into the early evening air. "Shall we celebrate with dinner at Angelo's?" said John.

"If you don't mind," said Angus, "could we meet up tomorrow? I think Emma and I need to have a nice long talk back at the hotel."

Emma flushed. "Yes," she said, grinning. "A nice talk." She turned and hugged John. "Thank you for everything," she said. "And don't forget what I said."

"About what?" he asked, innocently, then winced as her thumb jabbed him in the side. "I won't, I promise."

She went to Sherlock and Angus held out a hand. "Thank you for taking care of her," he said as they shook.

John grinned. "It went both ways."

"It always does with my Emma. Is it the same with yours?"

"Not exactly, no. In fact, the exact opposite. And he's not mine," he added, hoping it didn't come out as wistful as it felt.

"Ah."

They turned as Sherlock and Emma began their drain impersonations, laughing until they leaned on each other.

"Still," said Angus. "Maybe we could get together for a drink sometime and compare notes and coping strategies, yeah?"

"I'd like that."

"Good. Two of them—good mercy," he said, shaking his head as he went to collect Emma.

John waited and watched as Sherlock shook hands with Angus, suffered a hug from Emma—though he didn't look as though he minded much—and hailed them a cab. It pulled away and another slotted into its place.

Sherlock opened the door, then looked over his shoulder. "John? Are you planning on standing there all night, or did you want to go home?"

_I know where home is . . ._

"Home," said John and followed.

 


	11. Chapter 11

John had half-expected things to be easier without their houseguest. Back to normal.

Of course, they hadn't been. It seemed that Emma, for all her prodding,  _had_  been a chaperone―or a buffer. And when the cab had dropped them off, John had been very much aware that he and Sherlock would be alone in the flat.

He'd told himself not to be an idiot―or at least not a blatant idiot. It wasn't as if he was planning to leap on Sherlock and declare his undying devotion the moment the door closed. And the vision of what Sherlock's expression might be if he'd tried had made him smile despite himself.

Dinner that night had been Indian takeaway in front of the telly, which had limited conversation to the offering and acceptance of papadoms ―and he'd managed an hour of trying to read his Doyle biography while listening to Sherlock argue with the contestants in those awful game shows he loved to hate, before giving up.

Sherlock had barely seemed to notice when he'd said good-night, which was both reassuring and . . . not.

After reading for a while, with just as much success, John had pulled the blankets back and noticed that the sheets hadn't been changed. Sherlock had probably assumed he could talk John into taking the couch again, which wouldn't have happened―he wasn't that far gone.

He'd changed the sheets, because that's what he would have done a month ago.

But he'd kept the pillowcase.

John felt much more settled the next morning―it was amazing, what a good night's sleep in a real bed could do.

He showered, shaved, and dressed for his morning at the clinic. With luck, the patients would keep Sarah busy until he figured out what to say to her. But they did have to talk soon―putting it off was a coward's game. He supposed he could say the same thing about his feelings for Sherlock . . . but that wasn't being  _cowardly_. That was playing it  _safe_.

To his surprise, Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen, which, more surprising, appeared to be in the same state as John had left it.

"You're up early," Sherlock said, in an accusatory way.

John smiled, knowing where he was with a grumpy Sherlock. "So are you."

"No. I'm up late."

"Ah." John supposed Sherlock was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, though he did own a remarkable number of white shirts for a man who thought laundry day was something that happened to other people. "Of course."

"I was reading. Research material," he added, as John grinned at the pile of popular fiction on the table.

"Told you she was good," he said. "Aren't you sorry you prodded her into revealing the murderer?"

"Mmmph. Why are you up at this ungodly hour?"

"I'm working. It's my half day." John opened the fridge, closed the fridge, and decided to pick up something at the bakery on the way. And more disinfectant on the way home.

"At the clinic?"

"Where else?"

Sherlock raised a disapproving eyebrow. "I thought you weren't seeing her anymore."

"Her. You mean Sarah?" It had been a mistake to tell Sherlock before Sarah―now John felt doubly guilty. "That doesn't mean I'm going to give up my job. I do still need to pay my half of the rent."

"Hmmph. Have you checked your sales figures lately?"

"My . . .? Oh. No. Jane—I mean, Emma—told me to leave it alone for a while. I'd forgotten, really," he lied. He hadn't, not completely, but he didn't want to get his hopes up.

"She didn't tell  _me_." Sherlock reached a long arm for John's laptop and started to type. "Login . . . I assume it's the same as your blog?"

"Yes."

Password?"

John snorted. "You don't know?"

Sherlock gave him a look. "Aren't we beyond parlor tricks, John?"

"You only say that when you're too lazy to guess."

"I never guess."

"Yes you do." But John gave him the password anyway.

"Ostrich?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow and typed it in.

"Just a random word."

"No password is random, John—there's always some association. What do  _you_  have in common with ostriches, I wonder?" He frowned. "Interesting."

"Let me guess―four copies: Harry, Mycroft, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. Unless Anderson bought one so he could give it a crap review." John went to look over Sherlock's shoulder. His jaw dropped. "That isn't . . . ?"

"It appears so."

"That's . . . that's more than I expected. Far more."

"Congratulations, John," said Sherlock drily. "Even after taxes, I believe you've made the rent."

"It's a fluke," he said, staring at the screen. "It must be."

Sherlock hit the refresh button and the figure jumped slightly. "I suppose it might. But between your followers and mine—"

"Yours?"

"Of course  _mine_ ― it's my case, after all, naturally they'd be interested. I did warn them about your dramatic flair, but that doesn't appear to have deterred anyone."

"Oh. Um, thanks. Maybe it is worth doing another one. Or maybe I should wait and see?"

"You might ask Emma. Though if I were you, I'd wait until this afternoon," he added.

"Yeah." John, still staring at the screen. "I expect they did a lot of catching up last night." He glanced at Sherlock, realized how close he was, and straightened. "Tea?" he said.

"Kettle's on." Sherlock leaned back and looked at the ceiling with half-closed eyes. "I heard you tromping about upstairs and filled it." He yawned. "Coffee for me. Three sugars this morning, I think."

John tore his gaze from the sculpted column of Sherlock's throat and found mugs, spoons, and the jar of instant coffee, which only held a half teaspoon of granules. If coffee was going to be the new fad around here, perhaps they should get a grinder―but God only knew what Sherlock would do with it. "It'll have to be tea, sorry."

Sherlock made a face. "We could go out somewhere for breakfast."

John glanced at his watch. "No time. My first patient is due in an hour."

"You're still going?"

"Of course I am," he said, searching for the Earl Grey.

"But why?"

John found some Irish Breakfast of dubious vintage and decided it would do. "Because I have no idea if this . . . phenomenon is going to last. And I need to maintain  _some_ independence."

"I fail to see how making money from your blog means _less_  independence." Sherlock sniffed. "Unless of course, you suddenly object to the subject matter?"

"Of course not. And the money can certainly go towards the rent and shared expenses. But for anything personal . . . it's sort of sponging off you, isn't it? In fact," he said, checking the kettle, "it's a bit like what Mycroft asked me to do, except I'd be paid to report your activities to the world at large."

Sherlock took an impatient breath. "John," he said. "You're my colleague, a full participant in my― _our_ ―cases. Why shouldn't you profit by them as much as I do?"

John stopped what he was doing. "A full participant. Me?"

"Of course. What do you think you've been doing all this time? Holding my magnifying glass and applauding?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Idiot. Don't you ever  _read_  what you write? Tea will be fine," he added. "Some perspective would be better."

"Wait―you're lecturing  _me_  about perspective?"

Sherlock smiled through another yawn. "Yes, well, who better? Kettle's ready."

John poured. "What did you think of Angus?" he asked, for something to say.

"A singular man. He knows her faults and cares for her in spite of them."

"Or because of them," said John, not turning around.

"Mmm. I expect there aren't too many like him around. People who find geniuses good company," he said softly.

"Gluttons for punishment," said John, his mouth going dry at what he thought he might have heard in the deep voice. He brought Sherlock his tea, then dared to reach over and hit the refresh key. "Jane—I mean, Emma, is right—these numbers are addictive. I'm going―text me if it goes platinum, or whatever these things do."

Sherlock's voice stopped him at the doorway. "John? Why do  _you_  stay?"

For a moment, he thought he might confess . . . But he couldn't―not until he spoke to Sarah. He owed her that much.

John swallowed, turned, and told as much of the truth as he dared. "Because you're my friend, Sherlock," he said. "Possibly the best friend I've ever had. And our friendship means more to me than I can say." He smiled. "See you later. Try to get some sleep."

There was a pause. "Right." Sherlock sounded subdued, but John was too intent on escaping to think much of it.

 

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

 

John spent his tea break cleaning up the aftermath of lancing something unspeakable from somewhere unmentionable. He hadn't been able to do more than wave at Sarah all morning. Perhaps he could take her to lunch . . . no, dinner would be better. Or maybe it wouldn't.

"You were actually on time this morning," she said, making him jump. "No late night murderers?"

"We caught the most recent one two days ago―on my own time." He disposed of his gauze and placed the tools in the autoclave container. "Jane's safe now, by the way."

She propped herself against the desk. "I'm glad of that."

"But . . . ?"

"But," she said, with an apologetic smile. "I simply don't understand the fascination you have with Sherlock's world. And . . . I suppose I'm tired of him taking advantage of you."

"He doesn't. Well," he corrected, "he does, occasionally, but I don't mind. Most of the time."

Her smile was troubled. "But John, you're a  _doctor._ His work is exciting, I'll give you that." She shuddered, no doubt remembering their first date. "But he doesn't seem to understand that yours is _necessary_."

His phone interrupted. "Sorry."

_Body found in Chelsea. Needs a colleague's touch. ― S_

Sarah took the phone from his hand, looked at it, and handed it back. "I won't cover for you this time, John. You have to decide what's more important." She didn't add "and who," but he heard it all the same.

John took a deep breath and let it out. "Sarah . . . I flatter myself that I'm a good doctor. I enjoy it, aside from the paperwork and certain four-year olds. But there are plenty of good doctors out there and many who are more skilled than I am. There's only one Sherlock Holmes―and no one is better at what he does. If I can be of any assistance to him, in whatever capacity he needs me, then that's what I'll do."

"Where does that leave us? John?"

"I'm sorry." He looked into her worried eyes. "You're kind and funny and smart and gorgeous, and everything I could want. And I can't believe I'm saying this . . . But I don't think we're, ah―"

"Wait a minute― you can't be serious." She stared at him in genuine shock. "You didn't have any doubts when I came over the other day―I  _know_ you didn't. You  _wanted_  me."

"You're right. I did. Very much. But . . ."

She clenched her fists. "It's only been  _four days_!"

He sighed. "No. No, it really hasn't. You and Sherlock are so different―""

Her face twisted and she slapped him. "I  _knew_  it. I  _knew._ " Her voice shook.

He rubbed his stinging face "There's nothing to know, Sarah, not in the way you mean. But Sherlock and his work are a big part of my life―a legitimate part―and I need someone who can accept that. You can't."

For a moment, he thought she was going to hit him again, but she slumped. "No," she said. "I can't. I tried―I really did. You're a wonderful man, John Watson, everything I want . . . except someone else beat me to you. Maybe that's why I never . . . I left us in limbo too long, I guess, wanting to be sure. I could easily fall in love with you." She sighed. "But I don't want to be a close second, John. I need to be first."

"I'm so, so sorry." He didn't tell her, couldn't, that if he'd met her first, he wouldn't have been anything she'd have wanted. It had taken another damaged soul to heal his.

"So am I." Her breath hitched. "I suppose I always knew which of us you'd choose."

"I never wanted to make a choice."

She smiled sadly. "I think it was made for you." She sniffed a little as his phone bleeped a second time. "Go on, what are you waiting for?"

He desperately wanted to, but he couldn't leave her like this. "Do you want me to quit?"

She sighed and took the tissue he offered. "That's your decision."

He nodded. "Then I'll stay until you replace me. Would you consider keeping me on as a fill-in? Holidays and emergencies?"

"I suppose I could handle that." She wiped her eyes. "We'll also call you in for all of Darling boy's appointments. And I'm not joking."

"It's no more than I deserve."

The phone bleeped again and she managed a shaky laugh. "Will you please go away now?"

He kissed her cheek. "I'm sorry."

"Just go," she whispered.

John left, feeling guilty and relieved. And guilty about the relief.

And  _free_.

 

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

 

The cab dropped John off a block away from the address Sherlock had given him―the rest of the street was solid with emergency vehicles and onlookers and . He was gratified to be recognized and allowed through to the house even without Sherlock Holmes leading the way

John could hear shouting as he passed the For Sale sign on the lawn. He exchanged glances with the officer at the front door. "I'm expected," he said, wincing at Anderson's language.

"Better you than me, mate," said the officer.

The house was empty of furniture but full of policemen, all milling about taking notes and samples. There were quite a number crowding the doorway of the room that, from the sound, might soon become a murder scene if it wasn't already. He headed that way.

John shoved his way past as politely as he could and found Sherlock and Anderson literally arguing over the blood-covered body, which lay neglected on its side. Sally Donovan was by the door, watching.

John greeted her quietly and moved past the corpse to Lestrade, who looked like a harried parent. Behind him, the words  _I'll kill again_  were written in thin maroon lines on the white wall.

"Give it a  _rest_ ," he said, running a hand through his greying hair. "Both of you _._ "

"You can't blame  _me_  if the body's been moved," said Anderson. "If it even has. You're probably seeing things, you schizophrenic psychopath."

Sherlock curled his lip. "Will someone please find Anderson a copy of the ICD-10? He needs to review chapter five."

"The what?" asked Lestrade as John reached him.

"International Statistical Classification of Diseases," said John. "Chapter five is for mental disorders. How long have they been going at it?"

"Since Sherlock arrived. Can't blame him this time―not completely―Anderson's been in a foul mood for days."

"Sally," said Anderson, "tell him!"

She shrugged. "The blood is smeared," she said in a neutral voice. "There's a clean gap there and there, which means the the body must have been moved out of position after the blood coagulated."

Anderson went purple. "If it has then it must have been someone else. I'm not the only one who's been near it."

"Then you're not only an idiot, you're  _contagious_. And you're  _late_ ," he snarled at John.

"Unavoidably detained. Stabbing, is it?"

"The knife sticking out of his chest would seem to indicate that, yes. Anderson, if you don't stop that infernal whingeing—"

"Listen, you―"

"Anderson! That is  _enough_ " bellowed Lestrade.

"But  _sir―_ "

"That's it," said Sherlock, stalking towards Anderson. "Out. Everyone out―not you, Lestrade."

"Sir!" hollered Anderson, even as he backed up. "I'm going to file a complaint―Hey!" he squawked, as Sally pushed him out with one hand and slammed the door with the other.

"May I stay? Please?" she said into the sudden silence.

"All right," said Sherlock, after a moment. "But don't speak. Or  _think_  too loudly. Or get in my light."

She nodded.

Sherlock muttered to himself, touching the body lightly. He finally sat back.

"What do you see, John?"

"He's damp from the knees down. It rained last night and early this morning." John looked around. "I don't see an umbrella."

Sherlock put a finger to the corpse's sleeve, careful to avoid the blood. "His suit is damp on the left side, too. What would you say that indicates, Sergeant?" he asked, without looking at her.

Sally frowned. "He may have shared the umbrella with someone standing on his right, possibly the killer, who took the umbrella away afterwards?"

"Or he was dropped off," said Lestrade.

"Maybe, sir." She pointed. "But there's a long damp patch here on the wall and a smaller one on the floor―if that's from the umbrella, it could mean the time of death was this morning instead of last night, like Anderson thinks." She frowned. "Do you think the killer use the ferrule of the umbrella to write the message? The lines are thin and scratched―it must have taken ages."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Not keeping company with rabbits anymore, Sally?"

"No," she said, without inflection.

The other eyebrow went up. "There may be hope for you, yet." He looked back at the body.

John dropped Sally a wink.

"Since you're actually being useful today, come look at this," said Sherlock.

As Sally stepped closer, careful not to move between the body and the light coming through the windows, she winked back.

Lestrade shot an astonished look at John, who grinned and shrugged.

It wasn't long before Sherlock and Sally had determined that the killer was most likely a woman somewhat shorter than the victim, and that the writing had been an afterthought.

"A crime of passion, then," said Sally.

"I expect so," said Sherlock. "What a disappointment."

Sally shook her head but didn't comment. "Thank you for letting me observe," she said, instead.

Sherlock blinked. "Mmmph," he said. "Coming, John?"

As they walked away from the house, Sherlock said, "Donovan seemed far less hostile than usual. Should I be worried?"

"She's saving her energy―she has a busy five years ahead of her."

Sherlock eyed him but let it go. "I'm surprised they called me for what was obviously a common murder. Lestrade is becoming lazy in his old age."

"Murder, common?" asked John.

"Of course. Crimes of passion are far too frequent these days. Messy, unplanned, and inelegant―and usually unnecessary. Passion is nothing more than an impractical complication―look at what it did to Thomas King and Janet Cross."

"It must have some use," said John.

"For propagation, yes. Pleasure, perhaps. Crime, no. Detained how?"

John frowned.

"You said you were  _unavoidably detained._ "

"Oh. Right. Sarah and I had a talk, lost past due." He glanced at the other man. "I, ah, decided that―"

An imperious hand cut him off. "Do spare me the details. Call for a cab, would you? I have an experiment I need to monitor." He strode ahead to the corner.

John brought out his phone. "Maybe you're right," he said, putting it to his ear. "Maybe passion is overrated."

"I didn't say it was overrated," snapped Sherlock. "I said it complicated things."

John couldn't argue with that.

 

**ooooooOOOOOOooooo**

 

Sherlock's experiment didn't stink or stain, but it did take all of his attention, leaving John alone with his book and his thoughts, neither of which were particularly interesting. Even BiblioPhibian had lost its appeal. He'd left a message earlier at Ja―at Emma's hotel, but she was probably out manipulating other people's emotions before abandoning them to their own inadequate devices . . .

Their doorbell went off and he went to answer before it disturbed Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh," he said. "Hello."

"Um," said Sarah, over the box she was carrying. "I'm sorry to come over unannounced, but . . ." She looked up as a misty rain began to fall.

"Come in out of that," he said, taking the box and standing back.

She stepped in just enough to allow him to close the door. "You left some stuff at my place," she said. "I thought you might want it back."

"Oh." He looked down at the box, trying to think of something to say. "It could have waited."

"I know, but . . . "

"Yeah." He sighed. "Um, do you want to come up for a cup of . . ." he stopped, remembering the state of the kitchen. And its occupant.

But she was shaking her head. "No. No, not when  _he's_  the reason you . . . " Her face crumpled. "Sorry."

"Don't be. It's not your fault." He set down the box and gathered her to him, holding her as she cried.

After a while, she took two deep breaths and pulled away. "Better?" he asked.

"Not really," she said thickly, fishing a tissue out of her pocket and using it. "How pathetic am I, crying over you on your shoulder?" She sighed. "It would be so much easier if I could hate you, John. Don't apologize for that," she added.

"I won't. I'm glad you don't."

"I couldn't . . . But I'm going to put you on the fill-in list starting tomorrow. It'll be easier to cover your shift than see you, at least for now. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize for that," he said. "It would be difficult for me, too." He pulled her into one last hug. "I wish. . . "

"Don't." She slipped out of his arms and opened the door. "Good-bye, John."

And she was gone.

He locked the door, turned, and saw Sherlock standing near the bottom of the stairs. For once, the detective looked thoroughly nonplussed.

"John?"

"Sarah brought me some things I'd left at her place." He'd have to clean out his desk, too. He leaned against the door and rubbed his face with a hand.

"You're through, then. You and she."

"I told you we were."

Sherlock was silent a moment. "She could have phoned first."

"I expect it was an impulse. People do have them, you know."

"She could have brought them to the clinic. Or had them sent."

John shrugged. "Passion complicates things."

"Passion." There was just the hint of a sneer in the word.

"Yes, Sherlock. Passion." He picked up the box. "It may seem odd to you that she might not quite be over our relationship, but some people need more than six hours to recover. I know I bloody will," he said, under his breath.

"Six hours? Didn't you tell me yesterday―"

John sighed. "Just leave it, okay? Please?" He set foot on the stairs, but Sherlock didn't move. His face seemed carved out of marble.

"I don't see why you should be the one to comfort her. It seems . . . counterproductive."

"Maybe so. But I had to try."

"Was it that hard to let her go, John?"

"It was difficult, yes, but it was the right thing to do."

"Are you sure? You seem inordinately upset over it."

"Upset? Of course I'm upset," said John, all the tension and frustration and guilt letting go all at once. "I  _hurt her_ , Sherlock. Do you understand that? She's hurting because I told her―without a hint of warning―that what we had is over. I did that to her and she didn't deserve it."

"Then maybe you made a mistake."

" _What_?"

Sherlock's eyes glittered. "If you're so unhappy about it, maybe you should go after her. Talk her into taking you back. Judging from what I saw, that should be easy enough."

John couldn't speak for a second. "You think  _Sarah_  will make me happy?  _You_?"

"How should I know, John? You're the one in apparent mourning over your lost love." He sniffed. "It's nothing to do with me."

John stared up at him. "Oh," he said, his voice sounding as if it belonged to someone else. "My mistake."

Sherlock spoke as if he hadn't heard. "I honestly can't fathom why you decided to break it off with her in the first place. You seem . . . well suited." His tone made it an insult.

John barked a laugh. "Call it a crime of passion. But don't worry, I'll spare you the details." He shoved the box into Sherlock's hands and went back down the stairs. He snatched his jacket off its hook and shrugged it on.

"Where are you going?"

"Why?" He opened the door. "It's nothing to do with you, right?"

"John, wait." Sherlock hesitated. "Moriarty could be watching."

"Then I'll give him your best." He turned up his collar against the rain and let the door slam shut behind him.

 


	12. Chapter 12

John was halfway down the street before remembering that he didn't have any place to go—he'd always headed to Sarah's after an argument with Sherlock.

God, what a mess.

He kept walking, hunched against the rain-filled wind. He needed a warm, dry place, possibly a drink, and sympathetic company.

Harry would be good for two of them, but she and Clara were on their way to Cambridge with the kids to visit Clara's parents. Several of his friends would be willing to supply the place and the drink, but didn't know Sherlock—or the situation—well enough to understand.

And Mycroft was unthinkable.

There was _one_ place where he might find all three . . .

A cab splashed along and he flagged it down. As he gave the address, he glanced at the cabbie's ID and automatically reached for his phone. But it wasn't in his pocket—he was lucky he had his wallet—and he didn't particularly want to text Sherlock anyway. It would have been a concession, and he'd made far too many of those already.

As for his personal safety, if this cabbie was the murderous sort, he'd soon wish he'd chosen a different fare.

But the ride was without incident and John was let out on Tothill Street right in front of his destination. He went to the hotel desk, where the smiling clerk agreed that the weather was dreadful and allowed him to use the phone to ring one of the rooms. Then he went into the pub, ordered a pint, and took it to one of the tables to wait.

Not ten minutes later, Angus McRae put a pint of his own on the table and sat down behind it. "So," he said. "Rough day, then?"

John managed a chuckle. "Yeah, you could say that."

"If it helps, Emma led me a merry chase before she let me catch her. Well, not always merry, in fact," he said. "Some of it was bloody wretched. It was worth it, though."

John blinked. "Um. How much has Ja—Emma told you?"

"Quite a bit, actually, but she didn't have to—I know the signs. Don't worry," he added, lifting his beer, "if I'd ever had any outdated notions about Adam and Eve versus Adam and Steve, Emma would've knocked sense into me long ago."

"Right." John took a fortifying swallow and launched into his story.

It took a while, and the other tables slowly filled up around them. Angus interrupted halfway through to ask a passing barmaid for another round.

" . . . And here I am," said John. "No girlfriend, no job, and no valid reason for giving up either, or so I'm told."

"You're up against it and no mistake," said Angus. "They can read other people's personal lives as neat as you please, but when it comes to their own, they panic and get half of it wrong. But this one . . . this oneis mostly your fault."

John spluttered. "Mine? What did I do besides change my life for someone who told me to change it back?"

Angus smiled as the barmaid delivered fresh pints and a bowl of nuts. "Thanks, love. Let's see," he said. "You let him think you'd already broken with her when you hadn't, you told him you were late because you were talking with her, but you never said why—"

"He didn't want to know."

"You can't let that stop you—shouting can be helpful, I find. And then he saw you holding her while she cried." He shook his head. "Not the brightest idea."

"I didn't know he was there."

Angus grinned. "Aren't they always where they shouldn't be?"

"And never where they should." John sighed and fiddled with a peanut. "Just after we met, he took me to the scene of a murder and then ran off without a word."

"I've been abandoned at the Bodleian. Twice. I'm not allowed in anymore."

"Maybe," said John. "But I'll bet her older brother didn't insist on giving you a ride home."

"True enough. Of course, Emma's an only child."

"You are a lucky, lucky man."

"I know it. But then, yours didn't get himself concussed by your adulterous younger half-brother."

"There is that," said John, tossing the peanut back in the bowl. "All right, say it is my fault. How do I fix it, supposing he hasn't written me off completely?" The thought made him feel ill.

"You could always try what finally worked for—John," said Angus, lowering his glass. "What's that on your shirt?"

He looked down and froze as he saw a red dot of light over his heart. "Don't move," he said, his voice coming out in a harsh whisper.

Angus went still.

The dot winked out. "Doctor Watson?" The barmaid set down a second pint. "The gentleman in the corner paid your tab and bought you a round."

John put out an arm and gently pushed her out of the line of fire. The dot reappeared—but the corner table was empty. He stood, shoving his chair back.

"Sir? Is something wrong?"

He ignored her and made his way to the corner. A laser pointer had been propped at the proper angle in a bowl of nuts. There was an envelope as well, expensive looking—the part of him that wasn't on full alert wondered if it was Bohemian—with name handwritten on it:  _Doctor John H. Watson_.

"What's going on?" said Angus, appearing at his side.

John didn't touch anything on the table, but peered under it and each of the chairs. There was nothing to see but tiny scraps of paper on the floor. "Do you have a phone?"

Angus handed it over. John punched in a number without looking at the keypad.

The call went straight to voice mail. For a moment, a vision of Sherlock in an explosive vest almost stopped his heart . . . But no, it would have rung at least once—Sherlock was either on the phone or had shut it off.

He didn't bother leaving a message—Sherlock rarely checked his voice mail.

John tried another number, one he'd memorized in case of emergencies.

_"Lestrade."_

"It's John Watson. Our swimming pool sniper is back." That would be enough—Lestrade didn't know the whole story, but he knew more than was in John and Sherlock's official statements.

_"Where are you? Is there a bomb?"_

John told him. "I can't see anything obvious. There's a laser pointer and an envelope, and some scattered bits of paper."

_"What does Sherlock say?"_

"He's not here—he may be at the flat, but I can't reach him." John didn't bother to hide the irritation in his voice. "The envelope is addressed to me."

There was a short silence.

_"I'm ten minutes away. Get everyone out, quick as you can. I'll alert the bomb squad—and we'll get someone to check your place."_

John covered the phone and spoke briefly to Angus, who answered grimly and strode away. "Thanks."

" _Just don't die—he'll never forgive me."_ Lestrade hung up.

"Sir?" said the barmaid. "Is there a problem?"

"We've decided to move over here," he said, frowning as he tapped out another number. "Mrs. Hudson? It's John. Is Sherlock in?"

" _I think so—he's been stomping overhead for the past hour. Did you two have another domestic?"_

"Something like that. Could you give him a message, please? I can't get through."

" _John, you know I don't like to interfere—"_

He closed his eyes. "Please, Mrs. Hudson. This is vitally important and I know I can trust you."

_"All right,"_  she said. " _What's the message?"_

"Tell him to meet me at Emma's hotel. Tell him Moriarty just bought me a drink."

He hung up, looked across the room, and nodded at Angus, who pulled the fire alarm and disappeared, no doubt to find Emma.

John stayed where he was, staring at the objects on the table as the exiting crowd jostled him, hoping like hell Sherlock would want to find  _him_.

 

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

 

"It's odd, seeing you alone at a crime scene," said Lestrade, staring at the hotel, its white exterior pulsing with red and blue lights from the assortment of emergency vehicles behind the barricade. "You two have a fight or something?"

"Yes," said John, his patience stretched to the breaking point. "And before you ask, it was all my fault. What's taking so long?" he asked, knowing he meant Sherlock's arrival as much as— or more than—news from inside.

"Don't ask me," said Emma, who had been forcibly removed from the pub. She folded her arms. "I've never seen a bomb squad at work."

"And please God you never will," said Angus. "Ask them for training vids, instead, please. My poor old heart will thank you."

The doors opened and a bomb disposal officer came out, pulling off his helmet as he crossed the street. Lestrade went to meet him, along with the crew manager of the firefighters.

"Did you hear that?" said Emma. "He said  _all clear_! Come on."

Angus caught her before she'd gone two steps. "No, love, we're going to wait."

"Why? Oh," she said. "He'll be here soon, John. I'm surprised he didn't—there. See?"

John looked up. A familiar figure had inserted himself between Lestrade and the crew manager and was making his displeasure known. Lestrade pointed, and Sherlock turned his head. His eyes met John's and his expression changed from cold rage to something else entirely. Something John hadn't seen on his face since one madman had shot another in a darkened swimming pool.

Without looking away, he shoved past the crew manager and stalked over.

"Oh, my," said Emma.

John exhaled, feeling dizzy from relief. Sherlock  _had_  been worried. He hadn't ruined everything—whatever else happened, he could go home again.

But by the time Sherlock reached them, some of the anger was back. He tossed an object at John, who caught it—his phone. "Next time you throw a tantrum, John," he said, "do me the courtesy of taking that with you. I assume the crime scene has been trampled over?"

"Thoroughly," said John, ignoring the tantrum remark with some effort. "But I took photos before they arrived."

Angus gave his phone to Sherlock, who studied the images. "Interesting way to get your attention. What did the letter say?"

"I haven't opened it—they wanted to check it first. And I was waiting for you."

Sherlock grunted. "By the time Mrs. Hudson dithered through your message, the police were at the door—I never thought I'd be so pleased to see Sally Donovan. I assume there was an all-clear," he said, already walking away.

Emma grinned and went with him, leaving Angus and John to follow. "You've got some work ahead of you," said Angus. "But I don't think it's hopeless."

"No? I'm getting frostbite."

"Trust me—rage is better than indifference. And I'm almost sure it's not all aimed at you."

"That's reassuring," said John, as he went inside.

The tables and chairs had been shoved back, leaving a wide path between the exits and the corner table.

The barmaid talked to Sally while the bartender and the other servers starting moving the tables back.

Sherlock had already donned his latex gloves and was examining the envelope. "High quality—not Bohemian.  French. The handwriting is different from the last time as well. Male, angry—if he hadn't been using a felt-tip, he would have gouged the paper." He flipped it over. "Small tear on the apex of the flap—it was stuck down at one point. Men's cologne," he said, sniffing it. "No alcohol, so he either used water to seal the envelope or he didn't drink—though I doubt he licked it, no one is that stupid these days." He paused and offered it to John.

"No, go on."

"It has your name on it."

"I trust you."

Sherlock took out his small penknife and slit the envelope. He delicately removed a sheet of paper. "Cheap," he said, frowning. "Doesn't match the envelope."

He unfolded it by the edges, read it, made a disgusted sound, and held it out so John could see it.

_Very cozy, Dr. Watson. What would your BOYFRIEND say if he knew?_

Emma looked over John's shoulder. "You got cozy with Angus?" Her tone was indignant. "And neither of you called me?"

"You were on the phone," said Angus, mildly. "It wouldn't have been worth you walking down anyway—we're a treat to look at, but you would have found it drearily platonic."

"No contact, nonjudgmental or otherwise," agreed John, looking at Sherlock, who was scowling at the paper. "Is it meant to be a threat? Because it doesn't . . . sound right."

"That's because it isn't right," growled Sherlock. "Or rather, it isn't Moriarty's type of wrong. This is puerile, school bully stuff. You didn't see him? He must have been in your line of sight. Or perhaps just off to the side. . ."

"If I did, I don't remember it. I didn't know I'd have to."

"Your powers of observation are pathetic, John."

"I know," he said, reacting to the old complaint without thinking. "That's why I keep you around."

Sherlock sighed, but didn't look displeased. "We'll see what the barmaid has to say."

"He had quite a few," the barmaid was saying. "Whiskey. Top shelf. Oh, and a glass of water."

"Do you think you could find the glasses he used?" asked Sally.

"All mixed up, I'm afraid. We were busy. Oh—but he borrowed my pen." She reached for her blouse pocket, but Sherlock was there first.

He plucked it away. "Felt tip," he said, dropping it into the bag that Sally held up.

"What did he look like?" asked John.

"Angry," she said. "I'm surprised he bought you a drink, actually—from the way he was glaring, I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd thrown it at you."

"He went one better," said Sherlock, waving the note. "He staged the perfect revenge."

Sally blinked. "You mean this was all some kind of sick practical joke?" She reached for the note and read it. Horror crossed her face, followed by a scowl. "I know this handwriting." She looked at the barmaid. "Could you describe the man again, please?"

"Tall, thin, dark hair brushed back—a  _lot_  of cologne . . ."

"Blue jacket?" interrupted Sally. "Light blue shirt? Dark pants?"

"Yes, I think so. He had on a very ugly tie . . . herringbone, in a sort of odd brown."

"Sally," said John, touching her elbow. "Are you all right?"

"Did he look like a constipated rabbit?" asked Emma.

John and Sherlock glanced at each other.

"Um, ferret, I would have said. Do you know him?"

"Anderson," said Sherlock and John at the same time. "And he'd know about the sniper," added Sherlock.

Sally cursed. "Sorry," she told the barmaid. "But I'm going to kill him.  _My_  fingerprints are on that envelope. And my DNA on the center of the flap. I gave it to him this morning."

"You didn't put his name on it?" asked Sherlock.

She shook her head. "Never did before." She grimaced. "It was our . . . thing."

"You broke it off with him," said Emma.

Sally raised her chin. "I broke it off days ago, Ms. Rheardon. But I gave him a message in that envelope this morning. I told him to stop calling me and to leave me alone at work or I'd—I'd tell his wife."

"That would explain the confetti under the table," said Emma. "He must have torn it up."

"What about the pointer?" asked John.

"He uses one for the basic forensics class he's teaching the recruits."

"He's teaching a class in  _forensics_  and pulls something like _this_?" said Emma. "Heaven help Scotland Yard."

"Heaven help  _him_ ," said Sally. "Terrifying you is bad enough, but framing  _me_  for it—"

"I don't believe he thought that part through," said Sherlock, thoughtfully. "This is  _Anderson_  we're talking about. He's an opportunist, not a planner."

Sally snorted. "It doesn't matter how it happened. I'm going to make him wish he was never born."

"Need any help?" asked John.

"I'll take care of that," growled Lestrade, appearing next to Sally. "He's finally crossed the line, damn him. I'll need a formal statement from each of you. You, too, Donovan."

"Sir . . ." Sally swallowed. "Yes, sir."

John winced. Admitting to an affair with a married co-worker wouldn't be the brightest spot of her career—he hoped she wouldn't let it affect her determination.

"Do you want them now?" asked Angus.

"If you wouldn't mind."

No one did. Not even Sherlock.

 

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

 

It was late when Sherlock and John arrived home.

They hadn't talked much on the way, just polite statements and a mutual agreement that Anderson should be drawn and quartered by wild tortoises—an image that evoked only a few tired chuckles.

John thought he should probably be concerned that they were acting like polite acquaintances, but he didn't have the strength—the events of the day had wrung the last drop of emotion from him and the adrenaline crash had finished the job. There wasn't anything left.

Sherlock dropped bonelessly into his chair. "Have you eaten?" he asked.  "You couldn't have had much time for lunch."

"Too tired," said John, mustering a smile at the role reversal. "I'd better go to bed."

"Ah. Clinic tomorrow?"

"No. Quit today. They'll call me for the odd fill-in." He put a foot on the first step and looked up. The staircase looked twice as steep as it usually did. "Hurry up and solve something interesting so I can buy groceries."

"I'll see what I can do. John . . ." Sherlock cleared his throat. "I'm—This afternoon. I apparently didn't have all the relevant data about you and Sarah and I . . . may have overreacted."

John shook his head. "No, it was my fault. I should have shouted at you until you listened. Angus says it helps."

"Did he?"

"Mmmm-hmmm." John gave a jaw-cracking yawn, and remembered something he wanted to say. "Thanks for coming to the hotel tonight," he said. "Even if it did turn out to be a false alarm."

Sherlock frowned. "Did you really think I wouldn't?"

"Not really." John headed up, concentrating on one foot at a time. "You'd track Moriarty anywhere."

"Yes. Of course. Moriarty."

There was something in Sherlock's voice that made John pause, but he couldn't make sense of it, so he kept going. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

 


	13. Chapter 13

John woke late the next morning, which was no surprise—even if there had been a reason for setting his alarm, he'd been far too tired to think about doing so.

He barely remembered the ride home from Scotland Yard, though he recalled devising a few ridiculous punishments for Anderson just to hear Sherlock's deep chuckle.

Still fuzzy, he wandered downstairs with vague thoughts of tea and found Sherlock in the living room, his long fingers dancing over the keyboard of his own laptop.

"What are you up to this morning?"

"Dealing with Anderson."

"Lestrade said he was taking care of that." John went over to look and was reassured to find a word processing program instead of Anderson's bank accounts or a purchase order for four tortoises.

"He's already been suspended, but the trick will be to exact full official punishment without sacrificing Sally Donovan's reputation. Lestrade mentioned the problem last night, Jane formulated a plan, and I am executing it." The doorbell rang. "Could you get that, John? I'm expecting a delivery."

John looked down at his tee-shirt and boxer shorts, sighed and went to fetch pants and wallet.

At the door, a uniformed courier handed him a large document box and refused payment and tip with a smile. "It's been taken care of, sir," she said.

"By whom?" he asked, but received only a bigger smile in reply.

He brought the box to Sherlock who shoved the laptop out of the way to make room. The box was full of various dated papers, credit reports, affidavits, and printouts of CCTV images.

"Is that  _Anderson_?" asked John.

"Fifteen years' worth of Anderson," said Sherlock paging through the items with an air of approval. "You do have to hand it to my brother—when he decides to be useful, he doesn't stint."

"Mycroft sent these?" It must have taken hours to assemble.

"He called early this morning and offered to help—best not ask how he knew." Sherlock glanced at him. "He's fond of you, John, in his own way"

"Oh. Should I be worried?"

Sherlock's lips twitched. "Not at the moment, no. These should do very nicely. Can you be ready in an hour?"

"Ready to do what?"

"To force the correct confession out of Anderson, of course."

"Ah. Am I bringing the Browning?"

"If you like. But you won't need it."

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

 

At first it seemed they _would_ need the Browning, just to get past the front door.

"What do you two want?" snarled Anderson, looking much as he always did in slacks and a pressed shirt. John wondered if he'd dressed for work before he'd heard about his suspension. "Haven't you done enough?"

"We need to talk," said Sherlock.

"Talk to my solicitor." He tried to slam the door, but Sherlock's foot interfered.

"We will, if it comes to that. But first, we want to give you the chance to do the right thing."

"Get off my property before I have you arrested for trespassing."

Sherlock's lip curled. "This isn't your property—you can't afford Finchley Road. It belongs to your wife. Perhaps she'll talk with us. I'm sure she'll find it all very interesting."

"I'm calling 999."

"John, call Lestrade and have him meet us here."

John hit a button and lifted his phone. "I think I'll ask Sergeant Donovan, too."

"Damn it," Anderson glanced behind him and lowered his voice. "You  _can't_ come in—she's  _home_."

"Stop  _sweating,_  Anderson, your deodorant isn't up to it."

"Perhaps he should try scented talc," said John.

"There's a thought. Come on, Anderson. She needn't know a thing if you can stop swearing at us for five minutes and find someplace where we can talk privately."

Anderson reluctantly led them through an airy foyer and up a flight of stairs to a small study. He closed the door and retreated behind a desk that was far too ostentatious for the room. "So, talk."

"No apology?"

"You don't deserve an apology."

"Perhaps not. But John does."

"He isn't going to get one," said Anderson, lifting his nose in the air. "You were  _supposed_  to call  _him_ ," he told John. "Not the Yard and the bloody fire department."

"Sorry," said John. "You left that out of your note."

"So the end goal was to make me suffer in some way," said Sherlock. " _Quelle surprise_. Let me guess . . ."

"Guess?" murmured John.

"Anderson defies logic. Was John supposed to read the note, become terrified of being romantically linked to me and flee into the night, leaving me heartbroken? Or perhaps you thought I'd throw a jealous fit?" His words dripped scorn.

John winced. Obviously, Sherlock found both notions absurd.

"Either seemed fair," said Anderson, with an air of self-righteousness. "You told Sally—"

" _I_  told Sally," snapped John. "I told her she could have a great career, if she stopped listening to people who told her it was stupid to try." He folded his arms. "I'm sure it was just a coincidence that she ditched you five minutes later."

Sherlock snorted and dropped two packets on the table. He put his finger down on the slimmer one. "One of these is a confession. It states that you were drunk and spontaneously thought up a nasty prank based on a previous case, in answer to our . . . disagreement of yesterday afternoon. You'll notice that Sally Donovan is not mentioned in this document. You will  _not_  mention her in connection to this incident, nor will you mention your previous connection at all." He held out a pen. "I suggest you sign it."

"Why should I?

"Because you'll be shooting yourself in the foot if you don't."

"My solicitor says I'll be reinstated with a warning."

"Your solicitor is used to prenuptial agreements and wills. Did neither of you realize that your silly little prank could be construed as a hate crime under the Criminal Justice act of 2003?"

"What? A  _hate_  crime?  Just because I personally hate you doesn't mean—"

Sherlock leaned over the desk. "Even if you hadn't  _just stated_  that your motivation was to ruin our supposed relationship in payment for damage to your own, your note references a supposition of Doctor Watson's sexual orientation and infers mine in a way meant to wound. And you have on countless occasions accused me of various mental illnesses—usually in the presence of police witnesses, which in retrospect appears to have been a remarkably stupid move on your part."

Anderson gaped like a fish.

"In addition, if you don't sign, your affair will become public. Your  _wife_  will find out. Good-bye, Finchley Road."

Anderson pulled himself together. "My wife—"

"In the event that she forgives you or somehow believes in your innocence—which would seem unlikely, except she must be extremely gullible to have married you in the first place—both she and the gutter press get a copy of  _this_." His finger stabbed the thicker packet.

"What is it?"

"Documented evidence of every extra-marital affair you've had during your years together and dated CCTV stills of you going in and out of some of the more . . . exotic establishments in London. Often in rather vivid company."

Anderson went white and stared at the packet. "I don't believe you."

Sherlock opened it, pulled out an assortment of documents and dealt them out in front of the other man. "This one is my personal favorite. I'm thinking of using it as a Christmas card."

He showed it to John, who coughed. "You're on your own, there," he said. "I think I'll put a Santa hat on the skull, instead."

"Boring."

Anderson looked like a ferret who just realized he'd eaten a poisoned rat. "How . . . How did you get all this?"

"Does it matter? The courts won't see it—but everyone else  _will_." Sherlock gathered up the evidence and put it back in the packet. "Time to choose, Anderson."

John could  _hear_  Anderson gritting his teeth. "Fine," he said between them, snatching up the pen. "I'll sign. But I want those papers."

Sherlock smiled. "No."

Anderson went puce, but signed, grumbling under his breath. "There. Now get out."

"Presently." Sherlock kept staring at the man, who squirmed. "John, would you mind waiting outside? I'll only be a moment."

John thought he should mind, but found he didn't, much. Sherlock had what he wanted—Anderson was safe enough. Probably. "Of course." He picked up the unused packet and went to the door.

"No!' said Anderson, sounding panicked. "Don't leave me alone with him."

"You aren't alone," said John. "Your wife is home."

 

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

 

John leaned against the ornamental brick wall in front of Anderson's patch of front yard and smiled at a woman walking her dog. He didn't hear anything from the house—no shouts or breaking glass or the screams of a gullible wife—so he closed his eyes and let the sun warm him as he waited.

A hand jostled his good shoulder. "Wake up, John."

He opened his eyes and saw a ferociously satisfied Sherlock. "You didn't kill him, did you?"

"Only his spirit." He held up the signed packet. "I'll drop this off later."

"What about this one?"

Sherlock took it. "Insurance. It's barely possible Emma has underestimated Anderson's sense of self-preservation."

"All this effort for Sally Donovan? I'm surprised."

"So am I. But the Sergeant and I have recently arrived at a new understanding. And the effort wasn't solely for her." He strolled down the pavement at a moderate pace that John could easily match. "It isn't acceptable to attack me through you. Anderson understands that now. Beautiful day," he said, squinting up at the blue sky. "Shall we walk for a bit?"

"If you like," said John, bemused.

It was companionable, walking side by side, talking about nothing much. Sherlock didn't often let himself enjoy the ordinary, which made those times as special, at least to John, as the most exciting of midnight chases.

" . . . There are some very good restaurants just up the road, if you're hungry. Indian, Chinese, Japanese . . . And a superb Italian, though if we eat there, I suggest we take care that Angelo never finds out."

John caught his arm, stopping them both. "Sherlock, may I ask you a serious question?"

Sherlock hesitated. "Now?"

"I think so, yes." He looked into those pale, watchful eyes. "Do you really think a Santa skull is too boring for a Christmas card?"

Sherlock blinked at him. For a moment, John thought he saw disappointment on his face. Then he started to grin. "Oh, yes," he said. "Quite overdone." He started walking again. "What we need is a _fresh_  head—"

John caught up to him. "Oh, yes, because nothing quite captures the miracle of Christmas like bits of cadaver."

"Brilliant," said Sherlock. "We'll have that printed on the inside."

John shook his head, but couldn't help grinning.

 _We_ , Sherlock had said.

_We._

 

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

 

It didn't last long, the hope. Not three hours later, John finished writing up the Umbrella Murder—he'd think of a better title later—and went to see if Sherlock was up from his catnap and wanted tea.

And maybe . . . maybe a conversation.  _The_  conversation.

It was time—past time, maybe—to ask each other about the possibilities.

He lifted his hand to knock, but heard a muffled voice through the door. Sherlock wasn't napping, he was on the phone.

John decided to knock anyway, but Sherlock's shout stopped him.

"No, I  _can'_ t ask him . . . All right. I  _won't_ ask," said Sherlock, at volume. "Because he might tell me—and then where will I be? No, I won't do that either. Because he won't want to stay if I tell him."

John stilled.

"Emma.  _Emma_. We aren't your characters. You can't force someone to fall in love just because you want a happy ending. I'm not the type to. . . it just won't work. I'm sorry."

John exhaled, dropped his hand, and gave up.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock had left soon after with Anderson's confession, though he'd gone somewhere else after visiting Lestrade—he'd texted another set of cab info, but not his destination.

John knocked about the empty flat, telling himself not to be so stupid.  Not a month ago, it wouldn't have bothered him in the least to know that Sherlock wasn't—couldn't be—in love with him. It wasn't as if that was  _news_.

The  _important_ thing was that Sherlock valued their friendship. That's more than most people could ever hope to have. And it would be enough for John.

Eventually.

His phone rang. "John Watson."

"Doctor Watson, this is Sally Donovan."

"How are you?"

"Better," she said. "I still feel a right idiot, but I'll live through it."

"Did you see Sherlock? He was supposed to give Lestrade something that might help."

"Oh, did he? Thanks, I'll ask as soon as I have a chance to breathe—I've been up to my neck all day. That's why I called, actually. I need your help to correct _another_  mistake . . ."

"What can I do?"

"Would you be able to answer a few more questions about yesterday? Just routine things, but I missed them last night."

"You were understandably distracted," he said. "We all were. Ask away."

"Oh, um, I'm sorry, but I'll need your signature and initials as well. I know it's an imposition, but would you mind coming in today? I need to get all this filed as soon as I can."

"Sure. I don't have anything better to do."

"Good—I mean, I'm sorry to hear that. Would now be good, then? I'm not on call at the moment, but you know how that can change."

John agreed, ended the call, and went to find his jacket.

He caught a cab and texted the details to Sherlock. He didn't expect a reply, and didn't get one.

Sally was waiting at her desk. She was smiling and it suited her. "Doctor Watson—"

"John."

"John."  Her smile widened. "Thanks for coming in at such short notice." She gestured to her full desk. "We'd better use one of the rooms for this." She picked up some forms and escorted him down the hall.

"You look happier."

"I am, thanks to you—all of you.  Lestrade says it looks like there won't be any permanent damage to my career." She shook her head. "I still can't believe he confessed— _and_  agreed to keep my name out of it."

"You can thank Emma and Sherlock for that." They seemed to be headed for the same interrogation room where Emma had confronted Thomas King.

"I did—I mean, I will," she said. "I suppose he was terrified his wife would cut him off and toss him out—wish I'd been there to see him squirm." She sighed. "I sure can pick them, can't I?" she said, opening the door.

"Join the club," he said lightly.

She paused. "He was frantic, when we arrived at your flat," she said quietly.  "I'd never seen him frightened before—I didn't think he could be, or would ever show it. He cares about you. Really cares, I mean. I misjudged him so badly . . . I'm glad you ignored me when I tried to warn you off."

John touched her arm. "It's okay, Sally. You meant well."

She snorted. "No, I didn't. But I'll make it up to you both, somehow." She went in, putting her papers at the near end of the table. John took a seat opposite, facing the one-way glass window. "Okay, the first one is about your reasons for—" Her phone buzzed and she made an impatient sound as she glanced at it. "Typical! I'm sorry—I need to take this. Just be a moment. Sorry!" She hurried out, leaving the door open.

John scrubbed his face with his hands and looked at his reflection. A few moments later, the lights went on behind the mirrored glass, showing Sally talking on the phone.

"You look tired, John."

"Emma?" His gaze moved from the glass to where she stood, just inside the room. He stood up. "What are you doing here?"

"Research," she said, smiling. "I hear you had a productive morning."

"Yes. Very. Your plan for Anderson worked perfectly."

"Oh, that. I'm more interested in the other one." She winked. "Have you, ah, explored the possibilities, yet?"

John felt a stab of anger, though he knew it wasn't fair. "I'm sorry," he said. "We aren't characters in one of your books. You can't force someone to fall in love just because you want a happy ending."

She grimaced. "You heard that."

He nodded. "It was hard to miss."

"And you think he was talking about himself."

"Who else? It's not the first time he's said he wasn't the type."

She rolled her eyes. "You aren't the only uncertain one, John. He doesn't want to risk losing you, either."

"I know that—and he won't, just because he can't . . ." He shrugged. "It's okay. It really is."

"Lord save me from stubborn men. Look." She put her hands on her hips. "He's spent his whole life deconstructing what he knows, just to prove to all the skeptics that he _'s_ not just guessing _._  But explaining the steps doesn't work—they still call him a freak because they can't do what he does and they don't understand  _why_  he uses his abilities the way he does. So he stopped looking for approval and started keeping score."

She poked him in the chest. "And then you come along . . . and you accept him, even approve of him, even though he made sure you know who he is and what he isn't. You may be the first person in his entire life who gave him that."

"Except Mycroft."

"Yes, but you've never tried to use him for your own agenda, have you? And you've never tried to change him—some of his behavior, yes, but not  _him._ "

He remembered a conversation about heroes. "I've been disappointed in him."

"That's because you know him as well as he knows you. You know he's a better man than he's allowed himself to be." She started to pace. "He'll allow himself to be that better man because of you. But he can't quite trust it."

He folded his arms and propped himself against the table. "So now he doesn't  _trust_ me?"

She made a frustrated sound and began to pace. "He  _needs_  you, John, and he  _knows_  he needs you, probably knew it the moment you met—but he can't parse it out. He can't quantify you _or_ his feelings for you. And the feelings you have for him seem to be an unsolvable mystery. Nothing adds up because  _love can't do math_."

He raised his eyebrows. "Are you still talking about Sherlock?"

"I'm speaking from  _experience_ , so show a little respect and answer me one question: Are you in love with him, John? No, stop." She put her hands on his shoulders and her golden gaze bore into him. "Ignore the implications and the consequences of either answer. Ignore what you think  _his_  answer would be. None of that matters—the only thing that matters right now is the truth. Don't do the  _math_ , just feel the answer. Yes or no:  _Are you in love with him?_ "

"Yes!" he shouted. "Yes, I bloody well am!" He looked past her and saw Sally looking at him, phone forgotten. She reached out and hit the light switch.

She disappeared and Sherlock was in the mirror.

John swung around to face him, barely registering Emma's retreat or the door clicking shut behind her.

They stared at each other.

"I meant it," said John, unable to bear the silence. "But nothing . . . nothing needs to change, unless you—I know how important your work is, and I won't interfere or make any demands."

He didn't think he'd moved, but Sherlock seemed much closer, his expression unreadable. He still didn't speak, but at least he hadn't sneered.

John tried again. "I know this is the last thing you need. Delete it, if you want to, only . . . let me stay. Please." He swallowed. "A life without you in it wouldn't be a life at all, you see, not for me."

Sherlock was very close, now, and John braced himself, expecting a lecture on the uselessness of emotions. Or worse, an apology.

But instead, Sherlock's expression changed into something John didn't dare interpret.

"Sherlock? Are you—?"

Sherlock put out a hand and gripped John's good shoulder. "I need you," he said, in a rough voice. "I need you, go away, you make me want too much, I'm scared, you're mine, never leave me.  _Never leave me._ "

"I couldn't," said John, shaking his head. "Even if you tell me to. I'll move into 221C and grow mould first."

Sherlock chuckled at that, then sobered as John dared to trace a high cheekbone with fingers that were remarkably steady, considering his entire life had been turned upside down. But no—that had happened a while ago, with a single arrogant wink in a lab at St. Bart's.

Sherlock's gaze dropped. "John," he whispered, the same wonder dawning on his face as when he found the final piece to one of his impossible puzzles.

Someone knocked on the door and half-opened it, sending Sherlock back a few steps. "Whoops, sorry, this room's supposed to be free now—will you be long?" said a voice.

John suppressed a curse and rubbed the back of his neck. "Five minutes?"

"Fine." The door shut again.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "So," he said. "What, um. What happens next?"

"Haven't a clue." said John, with perfect honesty. "This is all new to me. But we're reasonably bright, the last few days notwithstanding. We'll figure it out."

Sherlock visibly relaxed. "All right." He straightened John's collar. "Dinner?"

John grinned. "Starving."

If they walked a little closer together than usual, no one noticed, except perhaps for Sally, who was at her desk dealing with several stacks of paper at once and talking on the phone. She looked up as they passed, raising her eyebrows in question.

John grinned and mouthed,  _thank you._

She saluted with a pencil and a saucy wink before getting back to work.

"She's going to be insufferable over this, isn't she?" remarked Sherlock as they made their way to the elevators. It didn't sound as if the prospect bothered him.

"Probably," said John. "But she'll be our kind of insufferable."

Emma and Angus were waiting outside, near the revolving sign.

"All sorted?" asked Angus. "I'm a bit disappointed—it was going to be my job to take you out and drown your inhibitions while Emma talked your detective into spelling it out."

"Sorry to disappoint," lied John. "Dinner instead?"

"Of course," said Emma, smiling. "I know just the place. Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock offered his arm. "Ms. Rheardon?"

They walked off together, towards the street.

"This has been one of the best and worst weeks of my entire life, all at the same time—sometimes at  _exactly_ the same time," said John. "Was it like that for you?"

"Multiply your one week by two years," said Angus, grimly. "I did say it had been bloody difficult."

John flinched. Two  _years_? "I owe you."

"We're even. For what you did for Emma. As for what you owe  _her . . ._ good luck when she decides to collect."

"Completely worth it," said John, as their partners disappeared inside a cab.

"Told you. Think they'll wait for us?"

"It doesn't matter," said John, with a grin. "I know where they're going."

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

Angelo, sensing something in the air, had ushered them to his best table, clearly pleased that the  _bella signora_  had brought her own escort this time.

John had asked for the  _pasta alla_   _checca_  and taken full advantage of Sherlock's mood to make sure the detective identified and ordered something he'd actually eat.

"Oh, and Angelo," he had told the beaming man, "We'll need two candles, tonight."

"Don't  _encourage_  him, John," muttered Sherlock, but not as if he'd meant it.

Angus had been regaled with the mystery of Jane Doe in three-part good-natured argument—all of them tacitly leaving out any references to nonjudgmental human contact—and John and Emma had agreed to collaborate on the writing of it, using up a stack of paper napkins Emma had begged from the busboy to make notes.

Meanwhile, Sherlock and Angus had bonded over music, of all the unlikely things, and had still been debating the possible influence of Vivaldi on Paganini when Emma had finally dragged Angus off to their patiently waiting cab.

All in all, a successful evening. But it was good to be home again.

John was still very aware that he and Sherlock were alone in the flat . . . but his anxieties had disappeared.

He picked up his Doyle biography and went downstairs.

Sherlock, dressed for bed, lounged lengthways on the couch, watching one of the crap television programmes he loved to hate. He was scowling now, as a woman tried to name the last five prime ministers in thirty seconds. "Who  _cares?_ " he said. "They can't do any more harm now."

"Some people like history," said John, walking to the couch. "It helps put the present in perspective."

"Irrelevant rubbish." He scowled, but John saw a trace of apprehension in his expression as well.

That helped, somehow.

"Lift up," said John, tugging at a pyjama'd ankle. Sherlock obliged and John slid underneath the long legs, propping the book against Sherlock's knees. He read without seeing a single word, until the complaints started up again. He smiled and rested his hand on Sherlock's calf.

Three pages later, Sherlock, still muttering, reached down and took John's other hand. A thumb occasionally brushed John's knuckles. It was distracting, but John didn't mind.

A new programme started, something to do with spinning wheels and buying vowels. Sherlock let go of John, swung his legs round the other way, and leaned back against his side. John shifted, too, and Sherlock took his hand again and pulled John's arm around him, still berating each contestant in turn.

Without any deliberate thought, John nuzzled the dark curls, breathing in that familiar mixture of chemicals, burnt match, and ridiculously expensive shampoo.

It smelled exactly like home.

Sherlock tilted his head back, asking a silent question that John was more than ready to answer.

There was a soft meeting of mouths, a gentle, thorough exploration of touch and taste, trust and desire. One of them made a small sound of contentment.

John lifted his head and smiled at his partner, whose eyes were both luminous and dazed.

"Are you very sure, John?"

John rubbed his cheek against the hand that had stolen up to cup his face. "Are you?"

Sherlock sighed. "No." A smile tugged the corners of his lips. "Angus tells me that living with a writer can be problematic."

"Turnabout is fair play," John said, drily.

"Mmmm. But are you, John? Sure?"

"Don't be an idiot," he said, and lowered his head again.

The programme ended, another began.

They were both stretched out on their sides, John's head pillowed on Sherlock's arm, drowning in long, slow, drugging kisses and the feel of Sherlock's sensitive fingers on the nape of his neck. His hand had slipped under Sherlock's tee-shirt to make slow circles over smooth, bare skin that was so much warmer than he'd imagined it would be.

There was only one problem and John was doing his best to ignore it, though he knew he wouldn't be able to for much longer.

Sherlock's fingers trailed down John's arm, drifted lower, and lower still . . .

"No," gasped John, sitting up and sending Sherlock sliding to the floor. "No. I can't. I'm sorry."

Sherlock rose on his knees, looking confused and heartbreakingly vulnerable. "Not . . . not yet? Or not . . ."

"No!" John caught his arm before he could move away. "Not  _here._ " He brushed Sherlock's hair from his forehead and touched his swollen lower lip. "I can't say there won't be some awkward moments along the way, but I do want you very badly—and I trust you. Completely. But whatever happens between us is never going to happen on  _this couch_. Love hurts," he added. "But this is carrying things too far."

Sherlock blinked at him before a grin—that rare boyish grin that was probably the first thing that John had loved about him—spread across his face. "We'll get a new one tomorrow."

John started to laugh. "We should send this one to Anderson. It fits his personality."

"Done. But meanwhile . . . " Sherlock's grin went wicked and his voice deepened. "Your place or mine?"

John thought about it. "Your bed's bigger."

"Right." Sherlock stood in a graceful motion and pulled John to his feet. "Yours, then."

"A man after my own heart," said John, with a laugh.

"Yes," said Sherlock, with an unguarded simplicity that dispelled all doubt. "Would you care to trade?"

"Oh, God, yes," said John, and let his brilliant, mad, infuriating genius lead him, once again, into a future full of possibilities.

 


End file.
